ELLEN  LEVIS 

ELSIE  SINGMASTER 


1 


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ELLEN  LEVIS 

A  JVOVEL 

BY 
ELSIE  SINGMASTER 

Author  of  "Katy  Gaumer,"  "Basil  Everman,"  etc. 


BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 

HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 

The  Riverside  Press  Cambridge 
1921 


COPYRIGHT,   1921,   BY  ELSIE   SINGMASTER  LEWARS 
ALL  RIGHTS   RESERVED 


O  '^ 


tZCfje  »ibers(ftie  S^rtisi 

CAMBRIDGE    .   MASSACHUSETTS 
U   .    S   .   A 


CONTENTS 

I.  A  Friend  in  Need  3 

II.  Ellen  refuses  to  hear  a  Call  15 

III.  Two  Versions  of  the  Same  Story  22 

IV.  A  SLUJkiBERiNG  Terror  32 
V.  Levis  speaks  his  Mind  39 

VI.  Studying  in  Vacation  48 

VII.  An  Evening  Pilgrimage  54 

VIII.  Matthew  makes  his  Choice  61 

IX.  A  Growing  Mind  73 

X.  Unexpected  Guests  83 

XI.  Change  92 

XII.  A  Quickening  Terror  99 

XIII.  Matthew  comes  Home  102 

XIV.  Amos  ventures  into  the  World  108 
XV.  Ellen  is  offered  a  Way  out  120 

XVI.  Ellen  solves  her  Problem  126 

XVII.  Goldstein's  Jewelry  Store  133 

XVIII.  A  Clock  runs  down  141 

XIX.  Fetzer  engages  a  New  Maid  150 

XX.  Master  and  Mistress  156 

XXI.  A  Lost  Sheep  163 

XXII.  A  Crisis  at  hand  168 


Iv  CONTENTS 

XXIII.  A  Strange  Journey  178 

XXIV.  An  Unhappy  Scholar  184 
XXV.  A  Projected  Atonement  187 

XXVI.  A  Visit  to  Ephrata  196 

XXVII.  Ellen's  Dreams  come  True  204 

XXVIII.  Fetzer's  Eye  is  opened  214 

XXIX.  Grandfather  and  Amos  make  Discoveries  217 

XXX.  Fetzer  delivers  a  Sermon  226 

XXXI.  Ellen  remembers  Brother  Reith  233 

XXXII.  Grandfather  plans  a  Crime  237 

XXXIII.  Ellen  undertakes  to  conquer  herself  242 

XXXIV.  A  Dark  Tower  246 
XXXV.  An  Undelivered  Message  257 

XXXVI.  Matthew  and  Ellen  261 

XXXVII.  A  Bitter  Wakening  272 

XXXVIII.  A  Quiet  Hour  280 

XXXIX.  Fetzer  closes  a  Door  283 


ELLEN  LEYJ^    ;;•.. 


ELLEN  LEVIS 

CHAPTER  I 

A  FRIEND  IN  Is^ED    -     - 

On  a  dismal  day  in  March,  four  years  before  Eil^n  Xevis  was 
born  or  dreamed  of,  the  sHght  acquaintance  of  Stephen  Lan- 
fair  and  Edward  Levis  was  quickened  by  an  unpleasant  incident 
into  friendship.  Both  attended  the  University  Medical  School 
in  Philadelphia  and  both  were  ambitious,  but  there  the  resem- 
blance between  them  ended.  Stephen,  an  underclassman,  the 
only  son  of  a  physician,  had  been  started  early  and  well  in  his 
career,  and  was  the  youngest  student;  Levis,  a  Senior,  had 
fended  for  himself  and  was  almost  the  oldest.  Stephen  had  an 
allowance  which  was  not  large,  but  which  sufficed  for  all  neces- 
sities and  some  luxuries;  Levis  had  only  that  which  he  earned 
by  tutoring,  and  by  acting  as  substitute  instructor,  laboratory 
assistant,  and  editor  of  the  Students^  Quarterly.  Their  acquaint- 
ance began  when  Stephen,  wishing  to  win  a  place  on  the  edito- 
rial board  of  the  Quarterly,  and  conferring  with  Levis,  had  been 
invited  by  him  to  become  a  contributor  to  the  next  issue. 

On  the  morning  of  that  dismal  March  day  Stephen  sat,  far 
from  Philadelphia,  in  the  room  which  had  been  his  father's 
office  in  Chestnut  Ridge,  a  coal-mining  town  above  Wilkes-Barre, 
waiting  until  it  was  time  for  the  train  which  should  take  him 
back  to  the  Medical  School  which  he  had  left  to  attend  his  father 
in  his  last  illness. 

He  looked  drearily  and  absent-mindedly  out  into  the  thick 
mist  which  hid  all  but  the  immediate  neighborhood,  a  dirty,  un- 
paved  street,  a  stretch  of  sidewalk  made  of  powdery  black  culm, 
and  the  front  of  a  large  dim  building,  the  "company  store."  He 
saw  not  only  what  the  mist  revealed,  but  what  it  hid,  a  contin- 
uation of  the  dreary  street,  running  between  a  black  hill  and  a 
blacker  culm  bank,  and  terminating  in  a  towering  breaker. 


4  ELLEN  LEVIS 

shapeless  and  hideous  in  design.  There  was  no  color  in  the  land- 
scape; all  was  a  dense  black  or  a  soft,  woolly  gray.  The  com- 
pany store  had  once  been  painted  red,  but  the  red  had  long  ago 
been  overlaid  by  black. 

With  him  sat  the  superintendent  of  the  mine,  Harry  Kinter, 
a  plump,  friendly  young  man  with  a  pendent  under  lip  and  easy 
manners.  He  slouched,  cigarette  in  hand,  in  what  had  been  Dr. 
Lanfair's  office  chair,  looking  with  dull,  kindly  eyes  at  his  com- 
panionv  He  was  sorry  frof  the  distressed  youth  and  was  doing  his 
best  to  comfort  him  in  a  practical  way. 

**Now  ,1  can  get:  the  old  fellow  from  Hazelton  to  come  up  for  a 
couple  of  years,  Stephen.  He'll  be  good  for  that  long,  I'm  sure, 
and  perhaps  longer.  But  we  must  have  your  word  to  settle  here 
when  you're  through  school;  otherwise  we'll  try  to  get  a  per- 
manent man.  The  advantage  to  you  would  be  a  salary  from  the 
beginning,  which  is  what  most  young  fellows  don't  get.  Would  n't 
you  like  the  place  for  the  sake  of  your  father.^  Perhaps  the  com- 
pany would  be  willing  to  pay  you  something  to  help  you  along 
if  they  could  have  your  promise." 

Stephen  glanced  toward  the  superintendent  and  then  away, 
unable  to  command  his  voice.  He  was  tall  and  thin  and  the 
looseness  of  his  clothing  and  the  length  of  his  hair  which  he  re- 
fused to  have  trimmed  by  the  Chestnut  Ridge  barber,  as  well 
as  his  expression  of  fatigue,  made  him  look  forlorn.  The  offer 
of  a  position  indicated  a  willingness  of  the  mining  company  to 
take  doubtful  risks,  since  other  lives  could  hardly  be  of  much 
importance  to  one  who  valued  his  own  so  little. 

His  pale  cheeks  and  swollen  eyelids  indicated  not  only  the 
weariness  of  nights  spent  in  watching,  but  a  copious  shedding  of 
tears  and  also  an  acute  present  anxiety.  Alas!  it  might  be  that 
he  would  have  no  other  place  to  go,  that  this  dreary  settlement 
would  be  his  sole  refuge,  a  gravelike  refuge,  but  a  refuge  none 
the  less.  If,  as  he  anticipated,  disgrace  awaited  him  at  the  Uni- 
versity, he  might  be  only  too  happy  to  return  to  this  inaccessible 
spot  whither  it  was  not  likely  that  a  rumor  of  his  misdeed  would 
ever  penetrate,  or  where,  if  it  did  penetrate,  it  would  be  vaguely 
understood  and  condoned.  Physicians  willing  to  bury  themselves 
in  Chestnut  Ridge  were  not  so  easily  found  that  the  mining  com- 
pany could  afford  to  be  fastidious. 


ELLEN  LEVIS  5 

It  was  not  that  Chestnut  Ridge  offered  no  opportunities  to  a 
physician.  One  could  not  look  casually  out  of  the  window  at  this 
hour  without  seeing  opportunities,  even  on  a  morning  when 
most  of  the  world  was  hidden  from  view.  Four  out  of  the 
ten  women  who  stood  gossiping  in  strange  tongues  before  the 
company  store  —  Austrian,  Hungarian,  Bohemian,  Lithuanian 
—  would  need  in  a  short  time  the  attention  of  a  physician.  The 
children  tugging  at  their  skirts  were  under-nourished.  It  was 
still  too  early  for  the  men  of  the  night  shift  to  have  had  their 
rest  and  be  on  the  street,  but  when  they  appeared  their  faces 
would  show  the  effect  of  the  long  hours  spent  away  from  the 
sunlight  and  of  the  liquor  with  which  they  enlivened  their 
periods  of  idleness.  There  was  no  doubt  that  Chestnut  Ridge 
needed  a  physician. 

But  such  work  would  be  done  by  Stephen  only  under  compul- 
sion. Here  his  father  had  wasted  his  life;  he  had  been  at  the  call 
of  every  foreigner,  had  spent  day  after  day  at  the  squalid  bed- 
sides of  suffering  women,  waiting  upon  uncleanness,  and  had 
died  at  the  age  of  fifty  of  blood  poison,  contracted  in  an  emer- 
gency operation  performed  hastily  and  without  gloves,  to  save 
two  lives  far  less  valuable  than  his  own.  He  had  apparently  not 
regretted  his  course;  he  had  accepted  his  fate  quietly  and  with- 
out complaint  and  had  been  anxious  only  that  Stephen  should 
understand  exactly  about  his  small  inheritance.  Afterwards  he 
lay  low  in  his  bed,  his  hands  clasped  across  his  breast,  repeating 
the  poetry  he  loved,  a  little,  lean,  bearded  man,  with  eager  eyes 
and  a  heartening  smile,  wholly  unconscious  of  the  loftiness  of 
his  own  soul. 

Presently  he  became  confused  and  tried  to  remember  a  formula 
which  he  frequently  recited  at  the  bedsides  of  dying  patients, 
sometimes  in  English  for  Protestants,  but  more  often  in  Latin 
for  Catholics  who  could  not  be  reached  in  time  by  the  busy  head 
of  a  wide  parish.  It  was  a  formula  which  for  him  explained  the 
world,  made  sacrifice  easy,  and  a  solution  of  all  life's  difficulties 
certain. 

"I  believe  in  God  the  Father  Almighty,  Maker  of  heaven  and 
earth,"  he  said  faintly  and  could  go  no  further. 

He  had  looked  at  his  son  earnestly  and  Stephen  had 
prompted  him,  not  without  embarrassment.  Stephen  had  been 


6  ELLEN  LEVIS 

trained  in  the  principles  of  the  Christian  faith  and  he  had  be- 
Heved  them,  but  they  were  now  with  him  wholly  a  matter  of 
rote;  religion  was  not,  he  believed,  a  necessity  of  his  life. 

Stephen  meant  to  be  not  a  general  practitioner  like  his  father, 
but  a  specialist  in  the  diseases  of  the  eye  like  Professor  Mayne 
of  the  Medical  School,  and  his  ambition  aimed  not  only  at  such 
skill  as  Professor  Mayne  possessed  and  such  fame  as  he  had  won, 
but  also  at  a  similar  accumulation  of  wealth.  He  did  not  expect 
to  attain  his  end  without  hard  labor.  He  was  a  diligent  student, 
and  he  was  willing  to  devote  himself  night  and  day  to  his  task. 

His  hopes  of  success  were  not  unfounded,  and  his  unusual 
ability  was  appreciated  not  only  by  himself,  but  by  his  teachers. 
He  had  won  the  First  Year  prize,  and  Professor  Mayne  had  inti- 
mated to  him  that  of  all  the  candidates  for  the  position  of  interne 
at  the  Ophthalmic  Hospital  he  was  most  likely  to  be  appointed. 
Such  a  position  as  that  at  Chestnut  Ridge  should  be  given  to 
a  man  like  his  acquaintance,  Levis,  who  had  worked  his  way 
through  school  and  who  had  endured  so  much  hardship  that  a 
regular  salary  would  be  desirable,  even  with  all  the  accompany- 
ing disadvantages.  He  might  even  describe  the  place  to  Levis 
and  suggest  that  he  apply  for  it,  or  he  might  mention  his  name 
to  the  superintendent  as  a  possible  employee.  He  pitied  men  like 
Levis  with  all  his  heart. 

But  he  might  need  the  Chestnut  Ridge  practice  for  himself  — 
let  him  not  forget  that!  He  rose  and  walked  up  and  down  the 
room,  still  without  answering  Kinter,  who  seemed  half  asleep. 

If  only  he  had  not  imperiled  his  future  by  a  piece  of  madness ! 
Having  signified  his  willingness  to  contribute  to  the  Quarterly, 
and  being  immensely  pleased  and  flattered  by  this  opportunity 
to  shine,  he  was  visited  by  the  sterility  of  mind  common  to  youth 
which  has  a  creative  task  set  for  it.  When  he  was  summoned  to 
his  father's  bedside,  his  article  was  not  yet  begun;  indeed,  he 
had  not  yet  selected  a  subject  —  and  he  had  expected  to  make 
with  this  contribution  an  impression  upon  the  whole  of  the 
Medical  School  and  the  Faculty  as  well ! 

During  an  unoccupied  hour  when  the  fatal  termination  of  his 
father's  illness  was  still  in  doubt,  he  had  found  in  an  old  yellowed 
medical  journal  in  the  drawer  of  the  office  desk,  an  article  pro- 
posing an  ingenious  and  at  the  same  time  unfounded  and  actu- 


ELLEN  LEVIS  7 

ally  ludicrous  tteory  of  the  origin  of  cancer.  The  magazine  was 
published  in  England  —  he  did  not  know  how  it  had  come  into 
his  father's  possession. 

The  theory  seemed  to  him  novel  and  ingenious,  though  pos- 
sibly mistaken;  he  did  not  realize  that  it  was  ludicrous.  In  one 
of  those  moments  of  madness  which  are  part  of  youth,  he  con- 
densed the  article,  copied  it,  and  sent  it  to  Levis.  The  act  was 
like  the  occasional  thefts  of  children  who  take  pennies  in  order 
to  buy  candy  and  who  repent  bitterly  and  are  forever  after 
honest.  He  was  ambitious  as  children  are  hungry;  the  desire  for 
fame  was  his  strongest  impulse  and  he  could  not  let  pass  even  so 
small  an  opportunity  to  shine. 

As  he  sat  by  his  father's  bedside,  where  stupor  had  at  last  suc- 
ceeded paroxysm  and  the  end  had  become  the  matter  of  a  day, 
he  realized  suddenly  what  he  had  done.  It  may  have  been  that 
the  principles  in  which  he  had  been  trained  reasserted  their 
power  over  him;  it  may  have  been  that  his  father's  face,  which 
looked  in  its  sunken  condition  like  the  face  of  a  tortured  saint, 
recalled  him  to  himself;  at  any  rate,  he  saw  as  by  a  lightning 
flash  the  foolishness  of  his  act. 

Having  realized  his  mistake,  he  tried  to  remedy  it.  Calling 
from  his  window  to  a  passing  miner,  he  sent  a  telegram  to  Levis, 
"Do  not  publish  my  article."  In  a  few  hours  he  received  word 
that  the  magazine  had  gone  to  press.  Levis  had  added  a  sentence 
at  which  he  groaned  aloud,  "Article  all  right." 

If  the  college  officials  detected  his  plagiarism,  it  would  mean 
the  end  of  all  his  hopes.  Professor  Mayne  would  no  longer  dis- 
tinguish him  by  his  commendation  and  friendly  attentions;  he 
would  have  no  chance  of  becoming  an  interne  at  the  Ophthal- 
mic Hospital  and  thus  of  pursuing  immediately  his  longed-for 
work;  he  would  have  to  accept  the  position  at  Chestnut  Ridge 
and  bid  good-bye  to  his  proud  hopes. 

It  might  be  that  he  would  have  to  suffer  actual  punishment. 
The  prize,  which  was  to  add  a  hundred  dollars  to  his  income, 
might  be  taken  from  him  and  public  mention  might  be  made 
of  his  disgrace.  It  would  not  be  greatly  to  be  wondered  at  if  the 
Faculty  chose  to  assume  that  all  his  carefully  wrought  papers, 
all  his  well-prepared  examinations,  were  accompanied  by  a  simi- 
lar dishonesty. 


8  ELLEN  LEVIS 

In  the  midst  of  his  distress,  he  realized  that  the  superintendent 
had  waited  a  long  time  for  an  answer. 

''I'll  have  to  think  it  over,  Harry.  It's  time  for  me  to  start 
now." 

Kinter  rose  lazily  and  lifted  Stephen's  satchel. 

"  You  let  me  hear  from  you  in  the  course  of  the  next  few  weeks; 
and  in  the  meantime  we  '11  engage  the  old  man  for  a  year  at  least. 
You  won't  find  it  so  dreadfully  dull  here,  believe  me.  It 's  possible 
to  get  down  to  Wilkes-Barre  on  the  evening  train  and  back  in  the 
caboose  of  the  freight;  gives  you  a  nice  long  evening.  I  know  some 
girls  and  I'll  introduce  you  to  them.  They  have  dances  once 
in  a  while.  You  '11  get  accustomed  to  it.  I  have.  I  guess  diseases 
are  pretty  much  the  same  as  mines,  alike  everywhere." 

In  the  train  Stephen  sat  close  to  the  window,  a  forbidding 
shoulder  turned  toward  a  possibly  loquacious  seat-mate.  His 
very  heart  was  sick,  but  he  fancied  that  it  was  his  body,  made 
so  by  the  motion  of  the  car.  Usually  he  enjoyed  the  ride,  first 
through  the  region  of  breakers  and  culm  banks  which  took  on  a 
weird  picturesqueness  on  a  bright  day,  then  along  the  upper 
reaches  of  the  Susquehanna  and  the  narrow  defile  through  which 
the  Lehigh  passes  at  Mauch  Chunk,  and  into  the  farm  lands 
farther  down.  He  liked  also  to  note  the  changing  speech,  the 
foreign  tongues  in  his  own  neighborhood,  the  broad  Pennsyl- 
vania German  at  Allentown,  the  less  accented  speech  near  Phila- 
delphia. But  to-day  nothing  engaged  his  attention  but  his  own 
misery. 

On  the  news-stand  in  the  station  in  Philadelphia  he  saw  the 
Students^  Quarterly.  He  was  tempted  at  first  to  pass  quickly  by 
and  thus  put  off  for  a  while  the  final  realization  of  his  shame,  but 
he  bought  a  copy  and  walked  through  the  station  to  a  bench  so 
placed  that  he  could  turn  his  back  to  all  the  world.  When  he  sat 
down  he  found  that  he  was  holding  his  breath,  though  suspense 
was  not  exactly  his  condition  of  mind,  since  suspense  implied 
some  hope,  and  he  believed  that  there  was  none  for  Stephen 
Lanfair. 

Then  his  lips  parted  and  his  eyes  dilated  and  a  deadly  paleness 
spread  over  a  countenance  already  white.  The  day  of  miracles 
was  not  past;  God  did  not  mean  him  to  be  destroyed. 

He  found  the  article,  "A  New  Theory,"  and  his  name  "Ste- 


ELLEN  LEVIS  9 

phen  Lanfair."  He  found  under  his  name  a  note:  "This  article 
is  not  original,  but  is  an  abstract  of  a  mistaken  and  amusing 
but  ingenious  treatise  by  John  Dalling,  a  famous  London  phy- 
sician. It  was  first  published  in  England  in  1837."  The  note, 
a  reader  would  have  said,  was  placed  there  by  the  contribu- 
tor himself. 

Saint  Elizabeth,  finding  in  the  fifteenth  century  the  loaves  in 
her  apron  turned  to  roses  in  answer  to  her  prayer,  may  have 
been  surprised.  Stephen  Lanfair,  finding  a  similar  benison  in  the 
nineteenth,  was  stupefied. 

When  the  machinery  of  his  brain  began  to  operate,  he  tried  to 
fathom  the  mystery.  He  had  not  written  the  note  himself,  that 
was  certain  —  some  good  angel  in  the  guise  of  a  critic  had  saved 
him,  and  the  only  person  through  whose  hands  the  manuscript 
had  passed  was  Edward  Levis. 

Having  crossed  the  city  he  knew  not  how,  he  found  Levis  in 
his  poor  room.  He  was  as  thin  as  Lanfair  and  looked,  with  his 
black  beard,  twenty  years  older.  He  took  off  a  pair  of  large  spec- 
tacles and  bade  his  guest  sit  down.  Stephen  remembered  having 
heard  that  he  had  been  a  foundling,  brought  up  at  Girard  Col- 
lege. 

He  did  not  answer  Levis 's  greeting,  he  simply  held  out  the 
magazine. 

"Did  you  put  that  note  in,  Levis?" 

Levis  flushed.  His  nature  was  one  of  intense  reserve  and  he 
anticipated  and  deplored  the  unpleasantness  of  a  confession.  He 
believed  that  he  understood  the  boyish  rashness  which  was  to 
blame  for  Lanfair 's  mistake,  and  he  had  added  the  note  for  his 
sake  as  well  as  for  the  sake  of  the  magazine. 

"I  saw  you  had  forgotten  it,"  said  he  lightly. 

"Did  you  know  the  real  author.^" 

"Yes.  I  saw  this  article  alluded  to  humorously  long  ago  in 
Thurber's  textbook  and  I  looked  it  up.  The  old  magazine  is  on 
file  here." 

"It  is  commonly  known,  then?" 

"Yes,  I  should  say  so,  as  a  sort  of  absurdity.  You  see,  of 
course,  that  it  is  an  absurdity." 

To  this  Stephen  made  no  answer.  He  would  have  proved  him- 
self a  fool,  then,  as  well  as  a  knave ! 


10  ELLEN  LEVIS 

"Do  you  think  many  persons  beside  yourself  would  have 
recognized  it?" 

'*I  think  it  likely,  and  of  course  one  would  have  been  enough. 
It  was  all  right  for  you  to  send  it  in,  though;  it  has  roused  a  great 
deal  of  interest;  it  shows  we  have  a  sense  of  humor.  I  was  very 
sorry  to  hear  that  you  lost  your  father,  Lanfair." 

Stephen  would  have  liked  to  lay  his  head  on  Le vis's  shoulder; 
instead  he  laid  it  on  Levis 's  desk. 

"I  did  n't  mean  to  add  a  note,"  said  he  in  a  thick  voice.  "I 
meant  to  pass  it  off  as  my  own.  I  have  been  a  dishonest  fool." 

Levis  stirred  uneasily. 

*' We  all  have  to  learn  lessons." 

Stephen  was  crying  like  a  child. 

"Don't,  my  dear  fellow,"  said  Levis. 

Stephen  lifted  his  head. 

"I  promise  you  that  never  in  my  life  will  I  do  anything  of  this 
kind  again.  It 's  nearly  killed  me.  If  my  father  had  known  —  I 
don't  know  what  he  would  have  felt  or  done  or  said.  He  would 
have  been  heart-broken.  When  I'm  tempted  to  do  anything 
wrong,  anything  of  any  kind,  I'll  think  of  you.  I  promise  you 
faithfully!" 

Levis  smiled. 

"Promise  yourself,  Lanfair!" 
f  Stephen  remembered  at  the  end  of  the  week  to  write  his  de- 
cision to  Kinter.  He  would  not  need,  thank  God,  to  go  to  Chest- 
nut Ridge  and  fix  his  eyes  for  the  rest  of  his  life  upon  the  dirty 
street  and  the  dismal  breaker  and  the  ignorant,  unclean  women 
who  were  so  often  and  so  direly  in  need  of  waiting  upon!  He 
thought  of  his  father  with  an  almost  intolerable  tenderness  of 
heart.  His  father  had  suffered  everything,  cold  and  weariness 
and  loneliness  and  hunger  of  mind,  separation  from  all  that  was 
interesting  and  profitable,  and  finally  martyrdom  itself  in  a 
ghastly  form.  His  father  was  a  saint;  he  would  always  remember 
him  and  love  him,  but  he  would  not  need  to  follow  exactly  in  his 
footsteps.  He  would  have  a  career  of  which  his  father  would  have 
been  unspeakably  proud ;  he  would  establish  principles  by  which 
the  whole  race  of  eye  specialists  would  be  governed;  he  would 
have  an  immensely  wide  influence,  and  it  would  all  be  his 
father's  doing. 


ELLEN  LEVIS  11 

He  told  Levis  about  the  position,  feeling  a  little  ashamed,  and 
was  relieved  when  Levis  explained  that  he  had  agreed  to  take  a 
country  practice  in  Lancaster  County. 

He  was  given  the  next  day  new  reason  to  expect  success.  Pro- 
fessor Mayne  summoned  him  to  his  desk  at  the  end  of  his  last 
class  and  congratulated  him  upon  his  answers  in  a  recent  exami- 
nation. Mayne  was  as  large  in  body  as  he  was  in  estate  and  his 
manner  expressed  his  opulence.  He  had  a  full  round  voice,  he  used 
long  words  deliberately  and  with  perfect  correctness,  and  spoke 
with  an  old-fashioned  rhythm,  which  accented  now  important, 
now  unimportant  words,  as  though  he  obeyed  some  queer  quan- 
titative law.  He  seemed  to  be  health  of  body  and  mind  incar- 
nate, but  an  inherited  susceptibility  to  mental  disorder  had  for- 
bidden his  continuing  his  race.  Life,  he  believed,  was  on  the  whole 
hideous  if  one  stopped  to  consider  it;  but  clever  men  did  not 
contemplate  it,  they  simply  secured  for  themselves  all  the 
pleasures  of  the  eye  and  the  mind  and  the  body  that  it  was 
possible  to  get  without  transgressing  the  laws  of  health  and  com- 
mon sense. 

Sitting  at  his  desk,  dressed  in  broadcloth,  he  looked  pleasantly 
at  his  pupil.  Stephen's  appearance  had  improved;  his  hair  had 
been  trimmed  after  a  homely  bang-like  fashion  then  prevailing, 
sleep  had  refreshed  him,  and  only  the  black  band  on  his  sleeve 
distinguished  him  as  one  afflicted.  His  eyelids  were  no  longer 
swollen  and  his  eyes  had  resumed  a  natural  brilliancy  which  drew 
attention  away  from  his  somewhat  attenuated  features. 

"I  was  interested  in  your  contribution  to  the  Quarterly,  Lan- 
fair.  Where  did  you  discover  that  antediluvian  absurdity?" 

"In  an  old  magazine  of  my  father's."  Stephen  could  not  sup- 
press the  tears  which  bm-ned  his  eyes.  His  relief  from  anxiety 
softened  his  heart  and  the  least  expression  of  sympathy  made 
him  almost  hysterical.  "He  had  evidently  kept  it  because  it 
was  a  curiosity.  He  was  a  great  reader.  I  did  n't  know  that  at- 
tention had  been  called  to  it  in  Thurber's  textbook  until  Levis 
told  me." 

"We  cannot  be  reminded  of  a  good  joke  too  often.  I  had  for- 
gotten it  entirely.  Continue  your  general  reading;  it  will  even- 
tually prove  profitable  to  you,  no  matter  what  department  of 
medicine  you  select." 


12  ELLEN  LEVIS 

Then,  remembering  that  Lanfair's  father  had  just  died,  Pro- 
fessor Mayne  invited  him  to  dinner.  His  niece  was  to  go  with  hin 
to  the  theater  and  they  would  dine  at  six  o'clock  at  the  Ne\^ 
Windham  Hotel.  His  carriage  was  outside  the  building.  Lanfaii 
might  just  as  well  accompany  him  now.  Stephen  followed  dowi 
the  hall,  his  heart  thumping. 

His  heart  beat  still  more  rapidly  when  he  was  seated  opposite 
to  Mayne  and  next  to  his  niece  in  the  hotel  dining-room.  The 
girl,  Hilda  Fell,  was  a  little  creature  in  exquisite  clothes  whc 
looked  up  from  under  a  pair  of  brows  which  almost  met  anc 
which  gave  to  her  face  a  willful  and  imperious  expression.  Sh( 
was  very  young  and  light  as  thistledown  and  was  already  spoilec 
by  wealth  and  idleness.  The  men  whom  she  had  known  hithertc 
were  familiar  with  her  type,  but  Stephen  was  not;  he  thought  oi 
her  as  a  charming  princess,  and  when  her  bright  eyes  met  his,  he 
looked  back  into  them  smiling,  and  not  recognizing  the  intense 
and  somewhat  unwholesome  curiosity  about  life  which  animated 
them.  He  had  frequently  heard  of  her  as  an  orphan  with  a  large 
estate  of  which  a  great  stone  house  on  the  river  front  in  Harris- 
burg  near  the  governor's  mansion  was  only  a  small  part.  She  was 
an  object  of  interest  to  the  students  who  knew  her  by  sight  and 
who  discussed  endlessly  her  wealth  and  her  fashionable  clothes 
and  admired  her  free  manners.  There  was  a  current  rumor  that 
she  smoked  cigarettes,  a  habit  then  almost  unknown  among 
women. 

Professor  Mayne  teased  her  and  she  answered  saucily.  He  de- 
plored his  own  ill  fortune,  and  still  more  that  of  this  little  crea- 
ture in  whom  the  taint  of  insanity  was  darker  than  in  himself, 
He  believed  that  his  sister,  Hilda's  mother,  would  have  devel- 
oped, if  she  had  lived,  a  serious  melancholia  ending  possibly  in 
suicide  for  which  the  family  history  furnished  abundant  prece- 
dent. He  was  convinced  of  the  present  soundness  of  Hilda's 
mind,  but  with  him  and  Hilda  the  family  must  end. 

He  looked  at  her  and  young  Lanfair  earnestly.  Lanfair  was 
ambitious;  he  would  improve  and  develop,  and  to  him  certain 
matters  could  be  explained.  Before  they  parted  he  had  invited 
Stephen  to  his  house. 

Stephen  went  from  the  hotel  table  to  Levis's  room.  He  asked 
merely  to  sit  there  with  his  book  before  the  fire,  which  was  the 


ELLEN  LEVIS  13 

only  means  of  heating  here  where  Hving  was  cheap.  He  was  hke 
a  child  who  finds  assuagement  for  hurt  in  the  silent  company  of 
an  older  person. 

Levis  smiled  and  went  on  with  his  work.  It  was  not  often  that 
students  sought  him  out  merely  for  the  pleasure  of  his  company 
and  he  was  touched  by  this  youthful  devotion. 

Nor  was  it  often,  at  least  during  his  occupancy,  that  a  girl's 
figure  and  a  pair  of  dark  eyes  were  visualized  against  the  back- 
ground of  the  old  mantelpiece.  Levis  himself  did  not  give  one 
hour's  thought  in  a  year  to  women;  he  believed  that  he  was  grow- 
ing too  old  for  love-making  and  that  hardship  had  made  him  im- 
mune to  love.  Certainly  there  was  no  profit  in  thinking  of  a  state 
of  matrimony  into  which  one  was  too  poor  to  enter! 

Stephen  contrasted  his  fearful  anticipations  with  what  had 
actually  occurred.  He  had  expected  to  be  by  this  time  disgraced 
and  despairing.  Instead  he  was  at  peace.  He  had  been  more  hon- 
ored than  he  had  dreamed  of  being,  and  now  a  new  and  wilder 
possibility  dazzled  him. 

His  thoughts  recurred  to  his  father,  and  he  dwelt  with  grati- 
tude upon  the  self-sacrificing  care  which  had  always  been  his.  If 
his  father  had  been  willing  to  provide  less  generously  for  his  edu- 
cation, to  stint  his  pocket-money,  or  to  leave  a  smaller  inherit- 
ance, he  might  have  had  a  larger  library  with  which  to  make 
Chestnut  Ridge  tolerable  and  an  occasional  journey  for  diver- 
sion or  improvement.  He  might  even  —  Stephen  flushed  a  little 
as  this  notion  came  into  his  mind  —  he  might  even  have  con- 
tracted a  second  marriage,  his  first  having  ended  tragically  with 
Stephen's  birth. 

Stephen  avoided  thinking  of  the  piety  which  was  after  all  his 
father's  distinguishing  characteristic,  even  though  he  was  aware 
that  his  father  would  rather  have  bequeathed  to  him  faith  than 
money,  and  that  his  effort  to  recite  the  Creed  was  not  a  last  re- 
assurance to  himself  as  it  had  seemed,  but  a  final  reminder  of 
the  faith  without  which  he  believed  his  son  would  perish.  Ste- 
phen saw  him  clearly  as  he  lay  in  his  bed  and  heard  his  voice 
reciting  the  treasured  verses  which  he  had  memorized  in  dreary 
journeys  over  the  bleak  hills.  The  lines  which  he  repeated 
most  often  acknowledged  with  what  was  to  his  son  a  ghastly 
frankness  his  dire  plight: 


14  ELLEN  LEVIS 

"In  the  hour  of  death,  after  this  life's  whim. 
When  the  heart  beats  low,  and  the  eyes  grow  dim. 
And  pain  has  exhausted  every  limb  — 
The  lover  of  the  Lord  shall  trust  in  Him." 

He  resisted  not  only  this  memory,  but  others,  a  tiny,  dismal 
schoolhouse,  half  filled  by  a  little  flock  of  mourning  women  and 
children  bereft  of  husbands  and  fathers  by  a  cruel  death;  he 
saw  weeping  eyes  and  sad  faces  in  which  apathy  had  followed 
tears.  He  hated  all  sorrow  and  trouble  and  he  connected  religion 
with  them.  Religion  was  for  the  old,  the  dying,  the  afflicted, 
the  needy,  and  he  was  none  of  these. 

He  looked  from  time  to  time  gratefully  at  Levis  bending  over 
his  books.  Whatever  good  fortune  should  be  his,  Levis  should 
share.  Levis  had  saved  his  honor,  had  saved  him  from  pitfalls  for 
the  rest  of  his  life.  He  would  never,  never  forget  him. 

For  the  most  part,  however,  he  thought  of  himself,  of  his  ex- 
cellent marks,  of  his  grasp  of  the  subjects  which  he  studied,  of 
admirable  Professor  Mayne,  and  especially  of  Professor  Mayne's 
niece.  He  had,  he  was  sure,  the  ordering  of  his  life  in  his  hands; 
he  could  make  it  what  he  chose. 


CHAPTER  II 

ELLEN  REFUSES  TO  HEAR  A  CALL 

Outside  the  Saal  or  meeting-room  of  the  old  Kloster  all  was  hot 
and  bright  in  the  sunshine.  The  thick  grass  in  the  enclosure  which 
surrounded  the  group  of  strangely  fashioned  buildings  was  ready 
for  cutting,  the  foliage  was  at  its  greenest.  Ellen  Levis  could  see 
between  the  two  wings  of  a  bowed  shutter  the  sloping  plot  and 
half  of  a  willow  tree  whose  plumy  branches  hung  motionless  in 
the  still  air.  She  could  see  also  sheep  feeding  in  the  fields  across 
Cocalico  Creek  and  in  imagination  she  played  with  them  and 
with  herself  a  childish  game,  making  a  silly  wager  that  a  cer- 
tain black  lamb  would  come  again  into  sight  before  Grandfather 
Milhausen  had  finished  his  lengthy  exposition  of  trine  immer- 
sion. It  was  Saturday  morning  when  most  children  were,  like 
the  lambs,  at  play,  all  but  the  children  of  the  Seventh-Day 
Baptists. 

Presently,  when  her  eyes  grew  tired  of  the  glare  of  sunshine, 
she  turned  them  upon  the  scene  nearer  at  hand. 

In  the  meeting-house  all  was  cool  and  dim.  A  soft  golden  light 
fell  upon  the  worn  benches,  the  long  tables  running  the  length  of 
the  room,  the  pulpit  covered  with  a  white  homespun  cloth,  the 
ancient  stove.  All  was  old  and  strange  and  brown  with  the  stain 
of  time.  Hung  upon  the  wall,  close  to  the  heavy  beams  of  the  ceil- 
ing, were  crumbling  paper  charts  with  intricate  and  graceful  let- 
tering which  had  been  made  in  1740  —  it  was  natural  that  now, 
after  almost  two  centuries,  the  inscriptions  should  be  faded  and 
dull. 

The  congregation  sitting  motionless  in  the  shadowy  place  had 
an  unearthly  aspect.  There  were  three  young  mothers,  with  heads 
bent  in  somnolent  maternity  above  the  infants  in  their  arms; 
there  were  a  few  older  women  whose  heads  were  likewise  bent; 
there  were  half  a  dozen  men;  and  last  of  all,  a  few  children, 
dressed  like  their  fathers  and  mothers  in  clothes  which  betokened 
indifference  to  changing  styles. 

Only  Ellen  Levis  and  her  brother  were  clad  in  any  modern 


16  ELLEN  LEVIS 

fashion.  Their  mother,  long  dead,  had  been  a  Seventh-Day  Bap- 
tist and  their  father,  who  was  not  a  church  member,  not  even  a 
worldly  Lutheran,  sent  them  to  the  meeting  at  the  Kloster  be- 
cause of  a  promise  made  to  her. 

The  two  children,  Matthew,  a  sturdy,  blond  boy  of  sixteen, 
and  Ellen,  who  was  almost  two  years  younger,  sat  a  little  apart 
from  the  others,  Matthew  with  his  arms  folded  like  the  brethren, 
and  Ellen  close  beside  him.  Sometimes  she  laid  her  head  for  a 
moment  on  his  shoulder.  She  was  a  child  of  intense  affections  to 
whom  the  sight  and  touch  of  the  beloved  object  gave  unspeaka- 
ble satisfaction.  Matthew  was  to  go  to  school  in  the  fall  to  study 
medicine  and  at  the  thought  of  separation  from  him  tears  came 
into  her  brown  eyes. 

The  meeting  seemed  interminable.  It  was  not  always  possible 
for  the  little  flock  to  gather  together  on  the  Seventh  Day,  and 
once  assembled  they  communed  long  together.  This  evening 
after  the  solemn  ceremony  of  Foot-washing,  the  Lord's  Supper 
would  be  celebrated,  as  was  proper,  as  an  evening  feast. 

The  attendance  was  comparatively  large,  all  that  remained  of 
the  Ephrata  flock  having  gathered,  as  well  as  a  few  members 
from  Franklin  and  Bedford  Counties;  and  Grandfather  Mil- 
hausen,  feeling  the  occasion  to  be  important,  was  delivering  him- 
self of  the  fruits  of  a  lifetime  of  meditation.  He  proved  the  neces- 
sity of  baptism;  he  proved  that  baptism  by  sprinkling  had  no 
warrant  in  Scripture;  he  dwelt  in  conclusion  with  passionate  out- 
pouring of  words  upon  the  efficacy  and  comfort  of  trine  immersion. 

His  voice,  now  loud,  now  soft,  kept  throughout  a  monotone. 
His  hearers  grew  drowsy,  slept,  woke  again,  changed  their  posi- 
tions, and  slept  once  more.  The  little  black  lamb  came  again 
and  again  into  the  field  of  Ellen's  vision,  fifty  accurately  counted 
automobile  horns  sounded  from  a  curve  near  by,  and  each 
member  of  the  congregation  was  in  turn  gazed  at  and  meditated 
upon. 

"I  like  Sister  Konig  because  she  is  so  very  fat  and  when  she 
is  not  in  meeting  she  smiles  pleasantly.  ...  I  pity  Brother 
Reith  because  they  had  to  take  his  wife  to  the  asylum,  but 
I  do  not  like  him.  ...  I  pity  Sister  Herman  because  she  had  to 
be  baptized  in  the  cold  creek  last  winter.  I  should  choose  the 
summer.    I  should "  —  there  was  a  slight  admonitory  motion 


ELLEN  LEVIS  17 

of  the  shoulder  against  which  she  leaned.  But  she  was  disturbed 
only  for  a  second;  then  she  settled  her  plump  body  still  more 
closely  against  her  brother's  arm.  He  was  tired,  she  was  sure, 
and  she  was  very,  very  tired.  Grandfather's  eyes,  lifted  a  mo- 
ment ago  toward  the  ceiling,  were  bent  now  upon  his  congrega- 
tion. He  must  see  that  they  were  tired,  that  they  longed  to  go, 
but  he  took  no  heed  of  their  misery. 

Once  more  Ellen  returned  to  her  musing.  She  journeyed 
through  the  strange  old  building,  passing  from  the  meeting- 
room  into  a  kitchen  where,  long  ago,  meals  were  prepared  for 
visiting  brethren,  and  climbing  up  into  large  empty  lofts  which 
had  been  their  dormitories. 

Then  she  sped  in  imagination  out  the  door  of  the  meeting- 
room  and  across  the  angle  between  the  Saal  and  Saron.  In  Saron 
had  lived  a  conventual  sisterhood,  young  women  who  had  left 
their  fathers'  houses,  and  older  women  who  had  left  their  own 
homes  and  their  husbands  and  children,  to  pray,  to  spin  and 
weave,  to  letter  the  old  charts,  and  to  sing  morning,  noon  and 
midnight,  strange,  attenuated  music  from  a  latticed  gallery. 

The  old  building  was  an  enchanting  place  —  if  only  one  were 
sometimes  allowed  there  alone,  so  that  one  might  dream  with- 
out the  guiding  admonitions  of  Grandfather,  to  whom  these 
women  were  all  saints.  Here  were  old  spinning-wheels  and  a 
curious  tower  clock  which  struck  the  hours,  and  pieces  of  pot- 
tery and  old  books  and  still  other  elaborate  charts.  Climbing  a 
narrow,  winding  stairway,  one  came  to  tiny  cells  where  the 
sisters  had  slept  on  narrow  benches  fastened  to  the  wall,  with 
blocks  of  wood  for  pillows.  Ellen  pictured  them  lying  stiffly; 
sometimes  she  imagined  them  falling  with  a  crash  from  their 
narrow  couches;  sometimes  she  fancied  herself  pursued  by  them, 
and  taking  refuge  with  Matthew  or  her  father.  They  wore,  she 
seemed  to  remember,  thick  white  dresses,  tied  about  with  ropes. 
The  poor  things  lay  now,  dead  and  done  for,  in  the  little  ceme- 
tery between  the  meeting-house  and  the  road. 

After  a  long  time  she  resumed  her  meditations  upon  the  sub- 
ject of  immersion. 

"I  would  not  like  to  be  baptized  when  the  water  was  high, 
either.  I  would  do  like  Millie  Konig"  —  her  eyes  turned  toward 
one  of  the  youngest  of  the  sisters,  a  girl  about  Matthew's  age. 


18  ELLEN  LEVIS 

with  a  meaningless,  saintlike  beauty.  "  I  would  take  a  nice  day- 
like  Millie."  She  looked  again  at  the  downcast  eyes  and  the 
crossed  hands.  "I  hate  Millie,"  said  she  calmly.  Then  her 
weariness  became  acute.  It  was  dreadful  to  have  to  sit  here 
while  the  world  went  on,  dreadful,  dreadful.  She  began  to  pity 
herself  and  saw  her  whole  life  wasted. 

Suddenly  she  was  acutely  disturbed.  It  was  not  alone  the  ad- 
monitory motion  of  Matthew's  shoulder;  it  was  the  preacher's 
eyes,  bent  directly  upon  Matthew  and  upon  her.  She  sat  up- 
right. Something  was  going  to  happen  after  all  —  she  anticipated 
that  it  was  something  more  trying  than  the  monotony. 

"There  are  those  in  our  midst  who  should  be  of  us,"  said 
Grandfather,  with  jealous  passion.  "The  children  of  a  good 
mother  who  was  a  Seventh-Day  Baptist  should  follow  in  her 
footsteps,  should  go  down  into  the  cleansing  flood  and  there 
wash  themselves  clean  of  sin,  should  make  a  fresh  start  in  the 
world,  should  put  upon  themselves  the  badge  of  separation. 
They  have  heard  the  call  many  times;  they  must  be  no  longer 
disobedient  to  the  heavenly  vision.  Brother  Matthew,  Sister 
Ellen,  is  it  well  that  you  should  postpone  what  is  right  for  you 
to  do,  that  you  should  longer  reject  the  peace  of  God?" 

Ellen's  head  turned  sharply,  her  eyes  seeking  her  brother's. 
A  shaft  of  sunshine  fell  upon  his  thick,  light  hair  and  across  his 
smooth  cheek.  For  a  long  time  he  did  not  answer  and  an  awful 
fear  began  to  take  shape  in  her  heart.  Was  he  not  going  to 
answer,  to  get  somehow  between  her  and  the  dreadful  eyes,  the 
deathlike  beard  of  Grandfather?  Still  he  sat  motionless. 

Grandfather  lifted  his  arms  in  supplication. 

"Father  in  Heaven,  Thou  that  takest  care  of  the  least  of 
Thy  children,  Thou  who  rejoicest  over  each  lamb  brought  into 
the  fold,  help  us  in  this  hour!" 

Ellen  leaned  forward  and  grasped  the  edge  of  the  seat  with 
both  hands.  Was  not  Matthew  angry,  would  he  not  be  angry, 
would  he  not  take  her  and  himself  away  from  this  glittering, 
searching  eye?  She  thought  with  sick  longing  of  her  father, 
so  comfortable  at  home,  or  riding  to  see  a  patient.  No  one  would 
dare,  she  was  certain,  to  talk  to  him  about  his  soul,  or  to  suggest 
that  he  should  take  off  his  clothes  and  put  on  a  long  black  robe 
and  kneel  in  Cocalico  Creek  and  let  Grandfather  dip  him  back 


ELLEN  LEVIS  19 

and  forth!  Neither  would  Matthew  submit  to  such  indignity. 
Outraged  and  insulted,  she  tried  to  find  his  hand  to  assure  him 
of  her  sympathy. 

But  her  hand  was  not  taken.  Matthew  sat  motionless  staring 
at  the  floor.  Her  eyes  sought  the  watching  faces.  Mothers  had 
lifted  their  heads,  the  few  fathers  in  Israel  bent  forward.  Sister 
Herman  was  crying.  Sister  Millie's  eyes  were  different  from  the 
rest;  their  expression  was  sharper  and  more  eager;  they  were 
hungry  eyes,  bent  upon  Matthew's  thick,  light  curls.  Without 
understanding,  Ellen  hated  her  even  more  vehemently.  Her 
hand,  creeping  into  Matthew's,  would  not  be  withstood. 

"Oh,  Matthew,  let  us  go  home!" 

Holding  her  hand,  Matthew  rose.  It  seemed  that  only  the 
blood  of  his  mother  filled  his  veins.  The  love  of  the  soil  was  in 
him  and  of  the  heavy,  unthinking,  comfortable  life  which  his 
mother's  people  had  lived  for  generation  upon  generation,  life 
founded  upon  a  conviction  that  in  the  next  world  all  would  be 
well.  He  could  not  remember  his  mother,  but  he  had  thought 
much  about  her. 

He  took  now  the  most  important  step  of  his  life.  Inclination, 
inherited  tendencies,  and  a  piety,  deep  and  authentic,  though 
narrow,  indicated  his  path. 

"I  have  thought  about  these  matters  for  a  long  time,"  he 
said  slowly.  *'I  believe  that  we  should  be  baptized  by  trine  im- 
mersion, that  there  is  no  salvation  outside  it.  I  believe  that 
we  should  observe  the  ordinance  of  Foot-washing  because  our 
Lord  commanded  it.  I  believe  in  the  holy  kiss  and  in  the  com- 
munion. I  believe  we  should  be  a  separated  people  and  that 
we  should  keep  the  peace,  not  going  to  law,  and  not  making  or 
engaging  in  war,  and  observing  temperance  and  charity.  I  am 
ready  to  be  immersed  when  it  seems  best.  I  am  — " 

But  he  could  say  no  more.  Even  so  well  thought  out  a  dec- 
laration proved  difficult  to  deliver.  Sister  Herman  began  to  sing, 
a  high,  shrill  song,  not  the  strange  part  singing  of  a  century 
and  a  half  ago,  which  had  become  merely  a  tradition,  but  a 
modern  revival  hymn, 

"The  Lord  's  my  strength, 
In  Him  I'll  trust. 
A  Shelter  in  the  time  of  storm." 


20  ELLEN  LEVIS 

Sister  Konig  joined  and  the  tenor  of  Brother  Amos  fell  in. 
Brother  Amos,  a  nephew  of  Grandfather  Milhausen,  was  only 
twenty-one,  but  he  was  a  school-teacher  and  had  already  been 
appointed  a  preacher. 

The  music  caught  Ellen  by  the  throat;  it  seemed  to  drown  her 
in  thick,  overpowering  emotion.  An  inner  voice  admonished  her 
to  yield;  that  it  was  easier  to  yield,  better  to  yield,  to  give  up 
one's  own  desires,  one's  own  will,  to  walk  in  an  appointed  path. 
Matthew  grasped  her  hand  closely  and  then  laid  his  other  hand 
upon  it.  He  was  undemonstrative  and  his  unwonted  gesture 
softened  her  heart  still  more.  For  him  she  had  fetched  and 
carried  all  their  short  lives ;  he  believed  that  she  would  obey  now 
as  she  had  always  obeyed,  and  he  would  bring  her  into  the 
kingdom. 

Grandfather  had  not  finished  his  appeal.  He  looked  down  at 
Ellen  and  it  seemed  that  his  bright  eyes  burned  her  through.  She 
thought  of  a  dreadful  picture  of  God  and  the  judgment,  she 
thought  of  every  wrong  she  had  done;  of  disobedience,  of  im- 
pertinence to  the  housekeeper,  of  excursions  into  forbidden 
books,  of  wandering  thoughts  in  meeting.  She  heard  him  plead, 
she  felt  Matthew's  hand  clasp  hers  still  more  closely.  Like 
Matthew  she  was  compelled  suddenly  to  decide,  but  unlike 
Matthew  she  had  not  thought  on  these  things,  and  except  in 
amused  speculation  the  possibility  of  being  immersed  or  of  baring 
her  feet  before  the  women  had  not  occurred  to  her. 

Then  Ellen  made  the  choice  by  which  she  was  to  abide.  The 
blood  which  flowed  in  her  veins  was  different  from  that  in  her 
brother's;  the  paternal  inheritance  was  paramount,  the  choice 
was,  after  all,  made  for  her.  Though  Matthew's  caress  thrilled 
her  with  delight,  she  rose  unsteadily.  She  saw  in  all  eyes  a 
pleased  conviction  that  she  was  about  to  imitate  him ;  she  noticed 
for  the  first  time  that  Amos's  eyes  could  gleam  like  her  grand- 
father's, and  she  trembled.  Standing  for  a  moment  she  was 
a  pleasant  picture,  a  round  and  still  childish  figure  whose 
future  appearance  was  not  to  be  certainly  prophesied,  but  pos- 
sessing two  features  whose  beauty  would  be  for  years  to  come 
certain,  thick,  curly,  brown  hair,  now  braided  primly,  and  dark 
eyes  shaded  by  lashes  so  black  that  they  seemed  immeasurably 
deep  and  tender. 


ELLEN  LEVIS  21 

Suddenly  she  felt  wings  given  her.  Out  of  the  brown  shadows, 
across  the  shaft  of  light  which  illuminated  the  bent,  blond  head 
of  her  brother  with  a  symbolism  marked  by  the  congregation, 
she  fled.  The  sunlight,  the  green  grass,  the  trees,  now  waving  in 
a  gentle  breeze,  and  most  w^onderful  of  all,  the  unlimited  blue 
sky,  seemed  to  hold  out  welcoming  arms.  She  began  to  cry  and 
to  run  as  she  cried.  She  feared  that  she  might  be  pursued. 
Though  she  was  not  afraid  to  drive  Matthew's  young  horse,  she 
did  not  think  of  taking  him,  but  sped  on  foot  up  Mount  Zion 
toward  the  bounds  of  the  enclosure,  across  the  site  of  a  more 
ancient  church  to  the  hill-top.  There  she  usually  looked  down 
through  a  thick  bit  of  virgin  woods  toward  the  smoothly  flow- 
ing Cocalico,  and  beyond  to  pleasant  Ephrata.  But  now  she 
opened  the  rude  fastening  of  an  old  gate,  and  ran  across  a  field 
past  a  tall  monument,  toward  a  pair  of  arms  of  whose  welcome 
she  was  certain.  There  was  peace,  and  not  in  the  dim  cavern 
from  which  she  fled ! 


CHAPTER  III 

TWO  VERSIONS  OF  THE  SAME  STORY 

After  Ellen  had  beaten  her  way  with  gasps  for  breath  up  the 
slope  beyond  the  meeting-house,  she  slackened  her  pace.  She 
began  to  doubt  pursuit,  and  besides  she  could  now  trust  to  her 
power  of  swift  locomotion.  For  a  while  she  kept  inside  the  fences 
on  the  grass  borders  from  which  a  dash  into  the  wheat  would 
have  been  easy,  but  after  she  had  gone  half  a  mile  she  wormed 
her  plump  body  between  two  spreading  rails  and  took  to  the 
road. 

The  sense  of  escape  from  prison  was  not  new;  many  times 
when  church  was  over  she  had  looked  up  and  round  at  the  arch- 
ing sky  and  the  waving  trees  and  had  danced  her  way  out  to 
Matthew's  buggy,  and  sometimes,  from  behind  the  safe  shelter 
of  its  curtain,  she  had  made  atrocious  faces  at  the  back  of  Millie 
Konig's  sleek  head. 

Presently,  her  joy  at  having  escaped  was  tempered.  She  did 
not  like  to  have  the  brethren  consider  her  wicked.  But  penitence 
weakened  and  finally  faded  entirely  away,  its  departure  has- 
tened by  reflections  of  a  nature  common  to  mankind.  Millie 
had  copied  her  sentences  in  school  —  it  did  not  make  much  dif- 
ference what  Millie  thought  of  her.  Brother  Herman  was  no- 
torious for  his  keenness  in  trade  and  he  had  cheated  her  father 
when  he  sold  him  a  horse.  As  for  Grandfather  —  she  was  sorry 
to  hurt  his  feelings,  but  Grandfather  was  old.  It  is  very  easy  to  be 
good,  Ellen  believed,  when  you  are  old. 

Suddenly  the  full  import  of  the  morning's  events  was  clear 
to  her.  She  was  free,  but  Matthew  was  in  prison !  As  she  walked 
on  she  began  to  cry  again.  Perhaps  he  would  let  his  beard  grow 
until  he  looked  like  Grandfather  and  Amos  and  like  the  pictures 
of  Father  Friedsam  and  Brother  Jabez  and  all  the  worthies  of 
the  past.  He  would  not  belong  to  her;  he  would  belong  to  all 
those  grim  and  pious  people.  Most  dreadful  of  all,  he  would  be- 
long to  Millie.  At  this,  she  stopped  short  in  the  road,  remember- 
ing Millie's  possessing  eyes. 


ELLEN  LEVIS  23 

Again  she  began  to  run,  dashing  through  the  Httle  hollow 
made  by  the  creek,  where  the  odors  of  fresh  earth  and  the  in- 
tense sweetness  of  elder  blossoms  would  at  any  other  moment 
have  made  her  loiter.  The  creek  bounded  her  father's  farm  and, 
taking  a  short  cut,  she  left  the  road  and  crossed  a  meadow  and 
then  ran  along  the  edge  of  a  field  of  corn  until  she  came  to  a  gate 
which  let  her  into  the  yard. 

The  Levis  house  was  one  of  the  large,  many-windowed  brick 
houses  common  to  the  neighborhood.  It  was  built  solidly  and 
its  correctness  of  proportion  gave  it  a  comfortable  beauty. 
The  porch  was  not  a  part  of  the  original  structure,  but  had 
been  added,  as  running  water  and  other  conveniences  had  been 
added  within.  Behind  the  house  stood  a  large  barn.  The  place 
had  not  the  trim  look  of  adjacent  farms;  there  was  a  good  deal 
of  brush  along  the  fences,  the  fences  themselves  needed  rebuild- 
ing and  the  woodwork  of  the  house  needed  paint.  After  looking 
carefully  at  the  premises  an  observant  person  would  have  made 
up  his  mind  that  the  owner  was  neither  by  taste  nor  by  inclina- 
tion a  farmer. 

The  property  had  one  glorious  beauty,  the  thick  and  lofty 
grove  of  oak  trees  which  stood  behind  and  above  the  house 
and  barn.  They  were  a  landmark  for  miles.  In  them  hundreds  of 
birds  nested  and  squirrels  played  and  scores  of  little  creatures 
had  their  homes.  In  spring  anemones  and  hepaticas  were  to  be 
found  beneath  them  and  nowhere  else  in  the  immediate  neighbor- 
hood; in  summer  they  spread  a  thick  canopy  of  shade,  and  in 
autumn  they  burned  with  a  glowing  red.  In  them  in  all  seasons 
the  wind  spoke  continuously,  now  in  a  whisper,  now  in  thun- 
derous diapason. 

Dr.  Levis  sat  on  the  porch  of  his  house,  his  pipe  in  his  hand, 
his  tall,  thin  figure  comfortably  disposed  in  an  old  rocking-chair. 
He  had  long  since  got  rid  of  his  black  beard,  and  he  looked,  if 
not  younger  in  body,  at  least  younger  in  spirit,  than  in  the  days 
of  his  friendship  with  Stephen  Lanfair.  This  morning  he  had 
seen  a  few  office  patients  and  had  paid  the  two  visits  which  were 
all  that  were  needed  by  his  healthy  clientele,  and  he  was  now 
waiting  comfortably  until  the  rural  mail  carrier  should  leave  his 
newspaper. 

He  received  little  mail  besides  his  papers  and  magazines  and 


24  ELLEN  LEVIS 

an  occasional  printed  notice  from  the  University.  A  connection 
with  one's  Alma  Mater  soon  lapses  when  one  has  formed  no 
close  friendships,  and  he  had  formed  but  one.  He  looked  very 
sober  when  he  thought  of  Stephen,  not  chiefly  because  Stephen 
had  forgotten  him  —  he  was  a  boy  with  a  boy's  short-lived 
enthusiasms  —  but  because  Stephen  Jiad  succeeded  so  well  and 
he  had  succeeded  so  little.  The  possession  of  a  fair  practice, 
a  productive  farm  and  two  fine  children  might  be  thought  to 
represent  a  sufiicient  attainment,  but  there  was  in  his  heart  a 
bitter  sense  of  dissatisfaction  and  disappointment.  He  had  been 
tricked,  bewitched;  forgetting  his  superiority  and  immunity  to 
love  he  had  married  soon  after  leaving  the  University,  and  had 
thus  fettered  himself  for  life. 

He  heard  the  first  thump  of  Ellen's  small  but  heavy  shoes  on 
the  porch  steps  and  moving  with  the  physician's  swift  response 
to  sounds  heard  during  sleep,  he  sat  upright,  his  pipe  slipping 
from  his  hand.  Then,  seeing  that  it  was  only  Ellen  come  from 
church,  he  sank  back  and  closed  his  eyes. 

"Are  you  back?  Come  pick  up  Father's  pipe  and  tell  him 
about  the  sermon." 

Rendered  speechless  by  the  consciousness  of  her  misery  and 
of  her  tear-streaked  face,  Ellen  moved  no  farther,  and  hearing 
no  advancing  step  and  feeling  no  warm  creature  against  his  knee, 
Levis  opened  his  eyes. 

"Why,  Ellen,  dear,  what's  the  matter.?  Why  are  you  home 
so  early.?  Where's  Matthew.?  Come  here  quickly!" 

Blinded  afresh  by  tears,  Ellen  started  toward  her  accustomed 
sanctuary. 

"What  a  heavy  Ellen  it  is!  Is  there  anything  the  matter  with 
Matthew.?" 

Ellen  shook  her  head.  There  was  nothing  the  matter  with 
Matthew  in  the  sense  in  which  her  father  spoke,  yet  there  was 
everything  the  matter  with  him. 

Suddenly  tears  seemed  an  inadequate  expression  of  her  trouble. 
Her  father's  face,  seen  above  hers,  was  pitying,  yet  a  little 
amused.  The  woes  of  childhood  were  so  small  —  he  wondered 
whether  it  was  a  sick  kitten  or  a  lame  horse  that  had  stirred 
Ellen's  tender  heart. 

"Now,  Ellen,  tell  me  what  is  the  matter." 


ELLEN  LEVIS  25 

Ellen  sat  up  and  dried  her  eyes  on  her  father's  large,  smooth 
handkerchief.  She  remembered  —  oh,  blessed  relief !  —  that  of 
course  her  father  could  stop  Matthew.  Matthew  was  to  go  away 
to  learn  to  be  a  physician ;  he  could  not  be  a  Seventh-Day  Bap- 
tist! 

"I  ran  away  from  meeting,"  she  confessed,  feeling  the  iSrst 
doubt  of  her  course. 

Levis's  face  was  grave,  but  his  eyes  twinkled. 

"Why?" 

"It  was  so  long  and  I  got  so  tired  looking  at  half  a  tree  and  a 
little  grass,  and  at  the  brothers  and  sisters  and  Grandfather's 
white  beard." 

"Why,  Ellen!"  Levis  frowned,  not  in  anger,  but  so  that  he 
might  concentrate  both  physical  and  mental  vision  upon  his 
daughter. 

Now  Ellen  revealed  the  heart  of  the  trouble. 

"Grandfather  preached  at  Matthew  and  me!" 

"Oh,  he  did!" 

"Yes,  and  Matthew  made  a  speech  about  believing  in  every- 
thing. He  's  going  to  be  immersed,  Father,  and  he  will  be  at  the 
Foot-washing.  They  wanted  me  to,  but  I  ran  away.  I  could  n't 
stand  it." 

"Why  could  n't  you  stand  it.?" 

Ellen  laid  her  hands  across  her  plump  body. 

"It  makes  me  feel  all  tight  here.  And  I  could  n't  bear  to  take 
off  my  shoes  and  stockings." 

"No,"  answered  Levis.  "I  should  think  you  could  n't!  Can 
you  remember  just  what  was  said  to  you  and  Matthew.'^" 

"Grandfather  said  we  ought  to  come  to  the  meeting  and  get 
into  the  cleansing  flood.  It  was  very  dark  and  uncomfortable." 

"And  what  did  Matthew  say?" 

"He  said  he'd  been  thinking  about  these  things  for  a  long, 
long  time  and  he  thought  it  was  all  right.  Then  they  sang  about 
a  shelter  and  they  prayed  over  us.  Grandfather  said  we  were  the 
children  of  a  good  sister." 

Levis  put  Ellen  off  his  knee  and  began  to  walk  up  and  down 
the  porch.  He  knew  his  own  origin  as  little  as  he  knew  the  origin 
of  his  unusual  name,  which  the  neighborhood  turned  into  Lewis, 
but  he  believed  himself  to  be  entirely  Anglo-Saxon  and  he  hoped 


26  ELLEN  LEVIS 

that  his  children  were  Anglo-Saxon  rather  than  Teutonic.  Left 
alone,  Ellen  ran  after  him  and  took  his  hand  and  walked  with 
him,  a  quaint  imitator  of  his  step  and  carriage. 

"Can't  you  stop  him,  Father?" 

"We  shall  see." 

"If  you  told  me  to  stop  it  —  that  is,  if  I  were  doing  it —  you 
know  I'd  stop,  don't  you?" 

"Yes,  Ellen." 

Ellen  tightened  her  hand  on  the  three  fingers  which  it  held. 

"I'll  never  do  what  you  don't  want  me  to  do." 

Levis  made  no  answer,  but  exchanged  the  three  fingers  for  a 
whole  hand.  After  a  while  he  stopped  walking  long  enough  to 
light  his  pipe.  At  that  moment  a  buggy  turned  into  the  lane,  not 
the  well-painted,  swiftly  moving  rig  of  Matthew,  but  an  older 
vehicle  in  which  the  housekeeper  had  driven  to  town  to  do  her 
Saturday  shopping.  Levis  provided  ample  transportation  for  all 
his  family. 

"She's  coming,  Father,"  said  Ellen  in  a  whisper. 

Levis  stepped  off  the  porch,  calling,  "Home  so  soon,  Manda?" 
and  received  a  solemn  nod  from  a  large,  white,  and  somewhat  re- 
proachful face.  He  went  round  the  house  and  down  to  the  spring 
house  and  up  a  slope  into  the  woodland  which  was  his  pride. 
There  he  sat  down  on  a  fallen  tree  and  bade  Ellen  sit  on  a  stump 
opposite  him.  She  smiled  and  blinked  her  reddened  eyes.  It  was 
her  favorite  spot  and  she  liked  to  have  her  father  here  with  her. 

Suddenly  Levis  leaned  forward.  Ellen's  news  shocked  him  into 
the  recollection  of  important  plans,  sometimes  dreamed  of  and 
smoked  over,  sometimes  forgotten  for  long  periods,  sometimes 
recalled  with  a  pang  of  self-reproach,  and  again  forgotten.  It  was 
his  fault  that  Matthew  had  impulsively  committed  himself  to 
this  foolishness  —  the  separation  from  Grandfather  Milhausen, 
which  would  be  complete  in  the  fall  when  Matthew  went  to 
school,  should  have  been  brought  about  long  ago.  Ellen  showed 
more  common  sense,  but  he  had  neglected  her  also,  and  for  all 
her  protests  she  might  hold  some  of  these  foolish  ideas.  He  had 
meant  long  since  to  take  her  education  in  hand.  Amos  Milhau- 
sen's  instruction  was  good  as  far  as  it  went,  but  it  was  now  inade- 
quate. He  began  to  her  astonishment  to  ask  queer  questions. 

"How  many  bones  are  there  in  the  human  body?" 


ELLEN  LEVIS  27 

"I  don't  know.  I  think  Matthew  knows." 

"What  is  the  shape  of  the  earth?" 

*' Round  hke  a  ball  and  flattened  at  the  poles." 

*'What  are  the  poles.?" 

"I  don't  know." 

"Why  are  the  days  shorter  in  winter?" 

"I  don't  know.  Matthew  knows." 

"Are  you  going  to  let  Matthew  do  all  your  knowing?" 

Tears  came  again  into  Ellen's  eyes.  Matthew  had  abandoned 
her. 

"I'm  at  the  head  of  my  class,"  she  boasted  in  feeble  self- 
defense.  "I  can  write  good  compositions  and  do  any  kind  of 
examples  and  I'm  excellent  in  geography." 

"  I  should  think  it  would  be  a  very  simple  matter  to  stand  at 
the  head  of  your  class!" 

"It  is,"  confessed  Ellen.  "I  don't  work  hard  at  all." 

But  now  Ellen  worked  very  hard.  In  the  next  half -hour  her 
father  drew  from  her  small  head  all  the  knowledge  which  it  con- 
tained and  tried  to  find  a  great  deal  more  than  had  been  put 
there.  A  few  times,  for  sheer  nervousness  and  shame,  she  cried. 
The  amount  of  her  knowledge  seemed  infinitesimal,  the  abyss  of 
her  ignorance  unfathomable.  It  was  all  the  more  humiliating  be- 
cause when  the  catechization  was  over,  her  father  started  to  the 
house  without  reproving  her  for  her  dullness.  It  was  hard  on  one 
who  had  prided  herself  on  her  brains ! 

Matthew  returned,  driving  slowly,  a  grave  expression  on  his 
handsome  face.  Having  unhitched  his  horse  he  came  round  to 
the  porch  where  the  flutter  of  a  short  skirt  vanishing  indoors  did 
not  escape  him.  He  was  deeply  angry  with  the  anger  of  a  superior 
toward  an  inferior  or  an  elder  toward  a  child.  He  could  not  un- 
derstand Ellen.  For  the  first  time  in  her  life  she  had  not  been 
willing  to  go  his  way,  and  she  had  marred  what  would  otherwise 
have  been  a  perfect  experience. 

Hitherto  he  had  not  thought  much  about  his  father  or  his 
father's  convictions,  his  father's  neglect  of  church  having  been  a 
condition  with  which  he  had  always  been  familiar,  but  now  it 
seemed  unnecessary  and  wrong.  Realizing  in  his  new  devotion 
that  it  was  his  duty  to  admonish  his  careless  parent,  he  prayed 
for  opportunity  and  strength. 


28  ELLEN  LEVIS 

The  three  Levises  ate  their  dinner  silently,  the  housekeeper 
sitting  with  them.  She  had,  seen  close  at  hand,  an  air  of  patient 
endurance  under  affliction.  She  had  expected,  according  to  cus- 
tom, that  the  man  of  whose  house  and  children  she  had  taken 
such  good  care  for  so  many  years  would  marry  her,  though  she 
had  already  been  married  twice  and  was  somewhat  older  than 
he.  She  had  even,  being  hopeful  of  Dr.  Levis,  discouraged  the  ad- 
vances of  a  neighboring  farmer.  The  short  lives  of  her  two  hus- 
bands and  the  oaklike  hardness  of  Levis  made  her  lot  a  very  dis- 
appointing one.  Having  just  heard  of  the  marriage  of  a  friend, 
she  was  more  than  usually  depressed,  a  condition  which  did  not 
escape  her  master,  to  whom  her  mournful  disposition  and  her  ex- 
traordinary combinations  of  English  and  German  were  sources 
of  deep  and  silent  amusement.  He  could  not  always  remember 
her  expressions,  but  Ellen  could  repeat  them  at  length.  *'  Unsere 
number  iss  1  long  and  2  short  and  sis  very  hart  zu's  distinguishe," 
she  would  say  into  the  telephone  and  be  perfectly  understood  by 
the  person  at  the  other  end.  Or,  "I  sink  it  will  give  rain,"  or, 
"Ach,  Ellen,  what  do  you  make,  then!" 

At  another  time,  with  amused  recollection  of  Mrs.  Gummidge, 
Levis  would  have  rallied  her  back  into  cheerfulness,  and,  uncon- 
sciously, into  some  hope,  but  to-day  his  thoughts  were  upon  his 
own  affairs.  He  did  not  hear  when  she  invited  him  to  a  second 
helping  of  potatoes,  a  piece  of  absent-mindedness  which  seemed 
insulting  and  which  would  furnish  her  material  upon  which  to 
brood  through  the  long  afternoon. 

When  dinner  was  over,  Matthew  followed  his  father  to  the 
porch.  Levis  looked  at  him  curiously.  He  had  something  to  say 
to  Matthew,  but  it  seemed  also  that  Matthew  had  something  to 
say  to  him!  Matthew  took  his  seat  in  a  rocking-chair,  and  an- 
other prayer  for  strength  concluded,  spoke. 

"Father,  Ellen  behaved  very  badly  in  church." 

"Ellen  told  me  about  it,"  said  Levis. 

"She  ought  to  be  punished." 

"That  is,  she  told  me  her  side  of  it.  Perhaps  you'd  better  tell 
me  yours." 

"Well,  Grandfather  made  a  fine  address  about  immersion. 
Then  he  said  that  since  we  children  had  such  a  good  Christian 
mother,  we,  too,  should  be  immersed  and  come  into  church.  I 


ELLEN  LEVIS  29 

said  that  I  would.  Then  he  spoke  kindly  to  Ellen  and  she  got 
up  and  ran  out  in  a  senseless  way." 

"Ellen  was  frightened." 

"She's  old  enough  not  to  be  frightened.  She  has  an  immortal 
soul.  She  should  have  obeyed  me.  And  you  have  an  immortal 
soul.  Father,"  said  handsome  Matthew.  "Would  you  not  be- 
come converted  and  be  immersed?  It  is  a  very  blessed  condition." 

In  delivering  this  quotation  from  Grandfather,  Matthew's 
voice  had  a  slightly  hollow  ring,  as  though  even  he  were  aware  that 
the  situation  had  unusual  aspects. 

Levis  rose  and  knocked  the  ashes  from  his  pipe. 

"Suppose  you  come  into  the  office,  Matthew,"  said  he  crisply. 
"It  will  be  easier  to  talk  there." 

Within  doors  Levis  walked  up  and  down.  He  did  not  seem  to 
belong  here  in  this  country  office,  with  its  simple  fittings,  its 
serviceable  but  unmodern  appliances,  its  outlook  on  farmland; 
he  belonged  in  a  city  where  he  could  attend  fifty  instead  of  five 
patients  in  a  day. 

"Matthew,"  said  he  frowning,  "until  this  morning,  it  never 
occurred  to  me  that  it  would  be  necessary  to  speak  to  you  as  I  am 
going  to  speak.  But  I  've  been  overreached  and  deceived.  I  don't 
blame  you;  you  too  have  been  a  victim.  If  you're  old  enough 
to  take  the  stand  which  you  took  this  morning,  to  describe  the 
convictions  of  your  heart  before  strangers,  you  're  old  enough  to 
hear  what  I  have  to  say. 

"You  have  always  had  smooth  sailing;  you  can't  understand 
what  it  means  to  be  without  living  kin,  to  be  bound  out,  to  suffer 
intentional  or  unintentional  slights,  to  have  always  to  overcome 
difficulties,  to  deny  yourself  a  little  more  when  you've  already 
next  to  nothing,  to  be  cold  and  hungry  and  miserable.  I  would  n't 
wish  you  to  know;  I  want  never  to  think  of  the  miseries  of  my 
youth.  I've  done  my  best  to  shield  you  from  all  hardships;  but 
it  won't  hurt  you  to  know  that  such  hardships  exist. 

"Through  it  all,  I  was  determined  to  be  a  physician,  and  that 
is  what  I  succeeded  in  becoming  —  older  than  most  men  when 
I  graduated,  but  eternally  grateful. 

"I  came  into  this  neighborhood  to  begin  a  practice,  or  rather 
to  take  a  practice  temporarily.  I  did  n't  expect  to  stay  beyond 
a  year,  but  I  married  here  and  your  mother  would  not  leave." 


30  ELLEN  LEVIS 

For  a  moment  Levis  paused  and  looked  out  at  the  fields  and 
the  woodland  and  the  empty  sky.  Old  conflicts  in  which  he  had 
lost,  old  miseries,  old  thwartings  came  back  to  him,  and  es- 
pecially, painted  against  the  woodland,  a  face,  exquisite  in  line, 
delicate  in  coloring.  The  face  before  him  resembled  it  in  outhne 
and  in  expression. 

"After  she  died,  I  could  n't  go  away  because  of  you  and  Ellen. 
I  could  n't  take  you,  neither  could  I  leave  you;  so  I  stayed  here. 
I  've  brought  you  up  according  to  my  best  judgment,  and  I  've 
made  you  good  children. 

"Before  your  mother  died,  I  gave  her  a  promise.  She  was  con- 
cerned that  you  should  be  'saved'"  —  Levis's  voice  laid  a 
lightly  scornful  emphasis  on  the  "saved."  "She  held  the  strict 
notions  of  the  Seventh-Day  Baptists,  and  I  promised  I'd  do 
nothing  to  alienate  you  from  her  father  and  would  let  you  go  to 
church.  It  was  foolish,  but  your  grandfather  promised  to  exact 
no  religious  vows  from  you.  I  felt  that  his  promise  was  unneces- 
sary. I  did  n't  dream  that  children  brought  up  in  a  household 
where  English  was  spoken,  with  books  at  hand,  would  return  to 
the  fifteenth  century!" 

"The  Gospel  is  the  same  now,"  said  Matthew  neatly. 

"I  agree  with  you.  Everything  is  the  same  as  it  has  been,  al- 
ways." Levis  spoke  with  sarcasm.  Then  he  went  on  —  "You can 
have  no  deep  conviction  of  sin.  You  have  committed  no  great  sin." 

"You  don't  know  my  heart,  Father!" 

"  I  know  you  and  your  heart.  I  've  had  you  under  my  eyes  ever 
since  you  were  born,  and  I  know  you  're  neither  gross  nor 
wicked.  You  can't  be  repentant  except  in  a  sentimental,  super- 
ficial way;  neither  can  you  know  that  the  doctrines  of  the 
Seventh-Day  Baptists  are  right  and  others  wrong.  You  know 
no  others." 

"I—"  began  Matthew. 

"You're  under  my  control,  you're  supported  by  me.  You'll 
go  to  college  in  September  as  we  planned  and  then  to  the  Medi- 
cal School,  and  when  you  're  through  you  shall  decide  about  the 
Seventh-Day  Baptists.  If  your  religion  is  what  you  think  it  is, 
delay  will  make  no  difference;  it  will  rather  strengthen  you.  This 
will  be  a  test  which  you  should  welcome." 

"I  do  welcome  it.  Father." 


ELLEN  LEVIS  31 

A  slight  contraction  of  the  muscles  changed  the  expression  of 
Levis's  face.  Meekness  —  that  was  one  of  the  weapons  of  Abra- 
ham Milhausen's  daughter ! 

He  felt  an  almost  irresistible  desire  to  pour  out  upon  his  boy 
all  the  heretical  beliefs,  all  the  unorthodox  speculations  which 
had  for  years  filled  his  hours  of  meditation,  to  fortify  him  with 
skepticism  against  the  foolish  hopes  built  up  by  the  Christian 
religion.  He  believed  he  had,  like  the  Stoics,  the  possession  of  his 
own  soul.  Once  he  had  expounded  his  convictions  to  the  boy's 
mother  and  she  had  withdrawn  herself  physically  and  mentally 
until  she  died.  But  the  world  would  take  care  of  Matthew! 

"You  don't  suppose  that  all  wisdom  is  incarnate  in  Grand- 
father, do  you,  Matthew?" 

"He's  only  a  human  being,"  answered  Matthew,  with  the 
same  trying  neatness  of  response.  "But  even  children  can  under- 
stand all  that  is  necessary  to  be  saved." 

Levis  rose. 

"Well,  my  boy,  when  things  begin  to  seem  puzzling  to  you, 
your  father  may  be  able  to  help." 

Matthew  rose  also.  He  was  tired  and  he  had  many  things  to 
think  of.  He  looked  at  his  father  with  strong  disapproval;  he 
thought  of  Grandfather's  saintliness  and  the  pretty  face  of  Millie 
Konig.  His  father  lit  a  cigarette;  it  was  as  alienating  an  act  as 
could  have  been  committed. 

"I  think  Ellen  should  be  punished  for  disturbing  the  meet- 
ing," said  he.  "It  shamed  me  for  her." 

"I'll  attend  to  Ellen,"  promised  Levis  with  a  satisfying  grim- 
ness. 

But,  having  reached  the  doorway,  Matthew  suffered  misgiv- 
ings. 

"You  don't  mean  that  I'm  not  to  go  to  church  at  all.^" 

"Not  to  the  Seventh-Day  Baptist  church." 

"Not  this  evening!" 

"Not  at  all,"  was  the  decisive  answer. 

Having  opened  his  lips  and  closed  them,  Matthew  withdrew, 
backwards,  and  went  upstairs. 


CHAPTER  IV 

A  SLUMBERING  TERROR 

It  was  not  because  of  ingratitude  or  altogether  because  of  f orget- 
fulness  that  Stephen  Lanfair  had  neglected  his  friend.  Their  as- 
sociation had  continued  as  long  as  circumstances  made  the  seeing 
of  one  another  possible.  When  the  longed-for  interneship  was 
won,  Levis  had  been  for  two  years  out  of  the  Medical  School  and 
Stephen  was  preoccupied  with  the  straight,  dark  gaze  and  free 
and  saucy  manners  of  Hilda  Fell.  After  Hilda  had  seen  him,  she 
had,  for  reasons  as  yet  unexplained  by  psychologists,  forsworn 
all  other  company.  He  was  awkward,  he  knew  none  of  the  lively 
give-and-take  of  her  set,  he  was  grave  in  manner  and  thought; 
but  she  would  have  no  other.  Her  passion  for  him  assumed  an 
ominous  intensity;  she  was  happy  only  when  she  had  before  her 
a  definite  prospect  of  meeting  him,  she  was  unhappy  when  the 
character  of  the  meeting  was  such  that  she  must  share  his  at- 
tention with  others. 

Mayne  related  frankly  the  histoiy  of  his  family,  but  Stephen 
found  in  that  no  impediment  to  marriage.  The  insanity  appeared 
—  at  least  he  received  that  mistaken  impression  —  invariably 
in  early  youth.  Apparently  Hilda's  mind  was  sound.  Her  educa- 
tion had  not  been  of  a  very  solid  quality;  in  fact,  she  could  do 
little  more  than  write  a  presentable  note  and  she  did  that  as  sel- 
dom as  possible,  and  of  general  information  she  had  none.  But 
Stephen  believed  that  association  with  him  would  largely  supple- 
ment her  knowledge.  He  believed  that  Mayne  had  not  given  her 
the  proper  sort  of  education  and  that  she  would  learn  from  him 
with  delight.  He  could  not  know  or  dream  that  the  slightest  op- 
position, even  the  thwarting  of  her  whims,  would  reveal  her 
fundamental  instability.  Until  now  life  had  brought  everything 
to  her;  it  had  demanded  no  adaptations  on  her  part. 

He  explained  to  her  new  and  interesting  cases  which  came 
under  his  eye,  entirely  unaware  that  all  her  enthusiasm  for  his 
profession  had  its  origin  in  his  arm  across  her  shoulders.  It  was 
when  he  was  discussing  his  work  that  Stephen  was  at  his  best. 


ELLEN  LEVIS  S3 

His  marriage,  consummated  at  the  end  of  his  com*se,  seemed 
to  him  an  incredible  piece  of  good  fortune.  A  poor  man  from  a 
Httle  coal  region  town,  he  had  none  of  the  wealth  or  influence 
which  he  had  always  supposed  must,  even  in  America,  be  the 
contribution  of  the  bridegroom  to  an  alliance  with  a  name  so 
important.  He  visited  before  his  graduation  the  gray  house  in 
Harrisburg  and  saw  in  the  city  the  solid  business  block,  and  out- 
side the  city  some  of  the  farms  which  poured  their  revenues  into 
Hilda's  lap.  He  believed  himself  to  be  lifted  by  fortune  high 
above  the  average  of  mankind;  not  only  above  the  great  level 
mass  at  the  bottom  of  the  social  pyramid  and  the  dull,  superim- 
posed layer  which  he  had  learned  to  call  bourgeois,  but  also  above 
the  stratum  of  educated  men  and  women  who  lacked  comforta- 
ble wealth,  and  above  the  stratum  of  rich  men  and  women  who 
had  no  intellectual  pleasures.  He  had,  he  believed  for  a  month 
after  he  was  married,  everything. 

He  began  then  dimly  to  discern  the  chasm  which  divided  him 
from  Hilda.  His  keen  mind,  delivered  from  its  first  blindness, 
could  no  longer  fail  to  see  that  her  ignorance  was  not  the  result 
of  a  poor  education,  but  of  natural  inability  to  learn.  She  failed 
to  grasp  the  simplest  of  scientific  principles;  she  could  not  under- 
stand the  structure  of  the  eye  or  remember  its  chief  parts;  she 
made  Stephen  ridiculous  by  misquoting  him. 

He  dwelt  a  little  longer  in  the  paradise  which  he  had  created 
for  himself.  It  was  absurd  to  require  in  an  exquisite  creature  like 
Hilda  the  interests  natural  to  an  older  woman  or  to  a  student. 
Compared  with  the  young  women  whom  he  had  known  in  the 
University,  she  was  immeasurably  attractive  and  she  could  not 
be  expected  to  possess  every  perfection. 

It  was  not  long,  however,  before  he  understood  clearly  that 
her  dullness  to  the  passion  of  his  life,  his  profession,  was  due  not 
only  to  ignorance  but  to  indifference.  Their  first  quarrel  was 
precipitated  bj^  his  announcement  of  his  plans  for  the  future. 

"New  York  is  the  place  for  us  to  five.  Each  country  has  one 
center;  England  has  London,  France  has  Paris,  and  the  United 
States  has  New  York."  Stephen  often  spoke  in  this  sententious 
fashion  in  his  youth.  "There  the  world  currents  — " 

"But  we  are  not  going  to  live  in  New  York,"  said  Hilda 
quickly. 


34  ELLEN  LEVIS 

"Why  not?" 

"  Because  I  don't  want  to.  I  '11  go  there  for  a  few  weeks  as  often 
as  you  like  in  the  winter,  but  I  'm  going  to  live  in  my  own  house. 
In  New  York  you're  nobody  unless  you're  worth  millions  and 
millions ;  in  Harrisburg  you  can  be  somebody  for  a  good  deal  less 
than  that." 

"In  Harrisburg!"  Stephen  was  not  aware  of  his  absurdity 
until  Hilda  pointed  it  out  to  him. 

*'I  should  think  that  any  one  who  had  lived  in  Chestnut 
Ridge  with  a  breaker  before  the  door  would  find  Harrisburg 
heav 


en: 


Stephen  flushed.  He  had  poured  out  to  her  in  a  moment  of 
unique  confidence  a  description  of  Chestnut  Ridge.  With  it  he  had 
told  her  not  only  about  his  father's  life,  but  about  his  death,  and 
it  was  unfeeling  to  recall  the  conversation  in  this  scornful  fashion. 

"I  have  my  living  to  earn!" 

"Your  living!"  repeated  Hilda.  She  uttered  a  delicate  and 
good-natured  pleasantry.  "I  thought  you  married  me  for  that!  " 

Stephen  made  no  answer.  After  a  while,  when  he  could  go  with- 
out seeming  to  be  angry,  he  left  her  on  the  porch  of  the  hotel 
where  they  were  spending  their  honeymoon  and  went  to  walk 
alone.  He  was  shocked,  amazed,  even  appalled. 

Once  more  and  only  once  he  broached  the  subject. 

"I  am  exceedingly  anxious  to  do  well  in  my  profession,  Hilda," 
he  said  earnestly.  "New  York  is  the  only  place  where  a  man 
can  really  have  a  brilliant  success." 

Hilda  shook  her  head. 

"I've  made  my  plans." 

In  the  end,  after  six  months  abroad,  Stephen  hung  out  his  sign 
upon  the  Manning  Street  wing  of  Hilda's  house  and  there  prac- 
ticed his  profession  for  seven  or  eight  months  in  the  year.  The 
other  months  he  spent  in  her  train,  journeying  from  one  fashion- 
able American  and  European  resort  to  the  other.  During  these 
excursions  he  was  idle  except  for  stolen  visits  to  clinics  and  lec- 
tures, and  he  was  constantly  unhappy.  He  still  had  faith  in  his 
own  powers  and  he  realized  that  his  best  years  were  passing  and 
that  other  men  and  even  younger  men  were  winning  honors 
which  should  have  been  his.  He  knev*^  that  Hilda  believ^ed  that 
she  had  made  generous  concessions  in  allowing  him  to  practice  at 


ELLEN  LEVIS  35 

all.  He  knew  that  her  friends  —  though  her  associates  could 
scarcely  be  called  friends,  so  light  were  the  ties  that  bound  them 
—  thought  him  exceedingly  lucky,  but  he  believed  that  his  col- 
leagues held  him  to  be  a  fashionable  quack.  He  held  himself  to  be 
the  most  unhappy  of  men. 

Further  opposition  to  his  wife's  decisions  was  impossible.  He 
learned  before  the  second  month  of  his  married  life  had  come  to 
a  close  that  a  woman  given  to  hysteria  could  not  be  argued  with, 
could  not  be  made  to  see  reason.  His  ambition  was,  he  knew 
now,  stronger  than  his  affection  and  he  would  never  be  able  to 
gratify  it.  He  came  to  envy  quiet,  poor  men  like  Edward  Levis, 
especially  those  who  remained  unmarried,  who  could  live  their 
lives  in  freedom. 

He  had  one  or  two  grossly  unpleasant  quarrels  with  Hilda. 
Once,  after  she  had  laughed  at  his  awkwardness  in  the  presence 
of  an  acquaintance,  he  took  her  to  task  for  a  habit  which  he 
found  more  and  more  odious. 

"The  boys  at  the  University  used  to  say  that  you  smoked 
cigarettes,  but  I  never  believed  them." 

They  were  alone  in  his  bedroom  —  whose  bare  floors  and  al- 
most blank  walls  acted  as  sounding-boards  for  Hilda's  shrill  de- 
nunciation of  his  prudishness.  Terrified,  he  closed  the  door  quickly. 

Within  a  year  her  malady  took  a  not  uncommon  form.  He  had 
been,  he  realized  when  the  ugly  scene  was  over,  very  stupid  not 
to  have  recognized  earlier  the  obsessive  jealousy  and  rage  which 
she  must  have  felt  for  some  time,  but  he  had  not  dreamed  that 
the  young  nurse  in  his  office,  who  was  pretty,  but  ignorant  of 
everything  outside  her  profession,  could  have  attracted  more 
than  a  casual  glance.  When  Hilda  began  to  accuse  him,  he  lis- 
tened dumf  ounded,  on  his  cheek  a  gray  paleness  which  added 
ten  years  to  his  age. 

As  he  listened  to  her  coarse  tirade,  the  shrill  accents  seemed 
to  ring  like  an  unpleasant  soprano  aria  against  a  clearly  accented 
rhythmic  bass,  the  voice  of  Professor  Mayne.  He  had  received 
the  impression  from  Mayne  that  the  family  malady  never  ap- 
peared after  early  youth,  but  had  he  understood  him  aright.? 
Horrified  he  looked  into  an  abyss  to  whose  precipitous  wall  he 
had  come  blindly,  but  with  the  blindness  of  a  madman  or  a  fool. 

"But,  Hilda,"  he  said  slowly,  "I  am  married  to  you'' 


36  ELLEN  LEVIS 

Hilda  uttered  a  laugh  which  expressed  hideously  a  variety  of 
emotions  —  mollification,  for  his  dismay  was  disarming;  amuse- 
ment, for  his  innocence  was  laughable,  and  even  a  little  shame. 
Stephen's  mind  was  clean;  he  looked  at  her  as  his  good  father 
might  have  looked. 

For  a  short  time  she  seemed  a  little  disturbed;  she  regarded 
him  with  uneasy  inquiry  as  though  she  suspected  his  horror  and 
his  inability  to  forget  her  outbreak.  But  he  found  presently  that 
she  watched  the  coming  and  going  of  his  patients  and  that  she 
interrogated  his  employees  with  such  clever  slyness  that  they 
did  not  know  they  were  being  questioned.  Her  jealousy  noted 
only  the  women  with  whom  he  was  connected  professionally,  es- 
pecially those  who  were  alone  with  him  in  his  office,  and  between 
them,  young,  middle-aged,  or  old,  she  did  not  distinguish.  His 
dismay  at  her  ignorance  had  not  escaped  her;  it  was  the  center 
of  her  consciousness,  the  idee  fixe  of  her  madness.  She  misinter- 
preted the  present  and  falsified  the  past,  ascribing  to  Stephen 
infidelities  in  the  days  of  their  courtship.  Her  obsession  was  hide- 
ous, but  by  no  means  unprecedented;  frequently  the  newspapers 
rejoiced  in  the  airing  of  similar  or  more  sordid  cases.  Recently  an 
innocent  patient  waiting  in  a  doctor's  ofiice  had  been  shot  dead 
by  a  suspicious  wife. 

Mayne,  hearing  his  story  from  a  terrified  Stephen,  grew  white, 
then  shook  his  head.  He  laid  the  case  before  his  intimate  friend 
Dr.  Good,  who  was  an  alienist  and  brought  him  once  or  twice  to 
Harrisburg  to  spend  the  night.  It  might  be  necessary  eventually 
to  have  Hilda  go  —  Dr.  Good  always  put  his  prescriptions  as 
delicately  as  possible  —  to  a  sanatorium,  but  there  was  no  im- 
mediate danger.  Mayne  breathed  more  freely,  and  only  Stephen 
knew  by  what  eternal  vigilance  over  himself  and  her  the  peace 
was  kept,  or  apprehended  the  unpleasant  and  even  perilous  re- 
sults which  might  follow  upon  its  breaking. 

His  life  was  not  entirely  without  pleasures,  unhappy  as  it 
appeared  to  him.  After  the  first  rush  of  Hilda's  fashionable 
acquaintances,  who  came  filled  with  curiosity  and  went  away 
baffled  and  irritated  by  his  gravity  and  silence,  there  applied  a 
more  desirable  clientele.  He  treated  the  poor  in  the  city  hospital, 
serving  them  with  a  pleasure  which  he  did  not  analyze,  but  which 
had  its  source  partly  in  the  satisfaction  of  returning  some  of 


ELLEN  LEVIS  37 

the  service  which  hundreds  of  working  men  and  women  poured 
out  upon  Hilda  and  her  kind,  and  partly  in  a  deep  and  unrecog- 
nized discontent  with  his  own  life.  He  thought  often  of  his  father 
with  a  childish  turning  to  the  one  human  being  who  had  lov^ed 
him  deeply  and  unselfishly.  He  believed  that  he  still  regarded  his 
father's  devotion  to  others  w4th  impatience,  his  life,  based  upon 
a  simple  and  childlike  sense  of  duty,  as  wasted.  He  did  not  know 
that  unhappiness  had  begun  to  alter  the  opinions  which  were 
the  product  of  youth  and  good  health  and  material  prosperity. 

He  performed  cures  which  astonished  himself.  A  Mrs.  Fetzer, 
a  plain  little  Pennsylvania  German  woman,  suffered  at  the 
hands  of  a  drunken  husband  a  gunshot  wound  in  her  face,  and 
he  was  called  to  the  hospital  when  it  seemed  that  the  sight  of 
both  eyes  was  lost.  A  nurse,  Miss  Knowlton,  who  had  frequently 
attended  his  patients,  faced  him  one  day  with  defiance  and  told 
him  that  she  was  going  blind  and  that  according  to  half  a  dozen 
doctors  there  was  no  help  for  her.  A  Miss  Mac  Vane  came  to  his 
oflSce  and  laid  her  case  before  him  —  she  was  a  private  secretary 
with  no  other  means  of  support  than  her  own  earnings,  and  her 
eyes  were  failing. 

He  saved  one  of  Mrs.  Fetzer 's  eyes  and  found  for  her  a  place 
in  his  house,  of  which  she  gradually  took  entire  charge  in  a  man- 
ner which  suggested  now  a  guardian  angel,  now  a  watchful 
dragon.  He  cured  Miss  Knowlton  and  she  replaced  a  younger 
nurse  in  his  office.  Miss  jMacVane  became  his  secretary;  she  could 
not  be  entirely  cured,  but  with  expert  treatment  and  unremitting 
watclifulness  she  might  retain  a  measure  of  vision  for  a  long  time. 

He  thought,  grimly  contemplating  his  assistants,  that  Hilda 
could  find  no  fault  with  these  ladies.  Fetzer,  as  Hilda  called  her 
after  an  English  fashion,  was  irremediably  disfigured ;  the  inser- 
tion of  an  artificial  eye  was  out  of  the  question  and  she  wore  a 
black  patch.  Miss  Knowlton  was  tall,  her  features  were  large, 
her  red  hair  w^as  no  Titian  glory,  but  was  thin  and  pale,  and  she 
had  pale  blue  eyes  and  skin  without  color.  Miss  Mac  Vane  was 
short  and  heavy  and  her  dim  vision  increased  her  natural  awk- 
wardness. All  three  women  were  of  the  type  by  which  the  world's 
tasks  are  accomplished,  w^ho  take  little  or  no  recreation,  who  do 
without  all  luxuries,  who  desire  apparently  but  one  reward,  the 
consciousness  of  duty  done. 


S8  ELLEN  LEVIS 

Stephen's  sense  of  safety,  however,  was  founded  upon  a  mis- 
taken analysis  of  Hilda's  jealousy.  He  did  not  realize  that  she 
attributed  to  him  no  lust  of  the  eyes,  that  she  believed  that  it  was 
intellect  only  which  attracted  him.  She  hated  Miss  Knowlton 
and  Miss  Mac  Vane  and  every  one  with  whom  he  talked  about 
his  profession.  She  hated  even  Fetzer,  though  she  could  not  do 
without  her. 

He  had  begun,  not  without  a  chastening  recollection  of  his 
first  contribution,  to  send  articles  to  medical  magazines,  and  he 
believed  that  if  he  could  have  a  year  uninterrupted  by  idle  Jour- 
neying he  could  produce  a  valuable  work  on  infectious  diseases 
of  the  eye.  When  his  first  article  was  finished  he  thought  of  send- 
ing a  copy  to  Edward  Levis,  but  Levis  seemed  as  far  away  as 
his  father,  and  he  could  not  renew  the  acquaintance  in  so  infor- 
mal a  way.  He  would  some  day  —  no,  soon  —  look  him  up. 

Life  had  still  other  satisfactions.  A  sense  of  his  own  ignorance 
and  lack  of  early  opportunity  kept  him  constantly  seeking  for 
education.  He  was  interested  in  art  and  music  and  in  sciences 
other  than  his  own  and  he  tried  constantly  to  increase  his  in- 
formation about  them.  During  his  early  married  life  he  had 
bought  a  small  original  painting  and  Hilda  had  expressed  her 
approval  —  it  was,  she  said,  a  more  becoming  fad  for  a  gentleman 
than  diseases.  He  had  then  ceased  to  buy  pictures  until  his  own 
income  warranted  it. 

He  might  have  found  congenial  friends  —  the  city  was  not  in- 
habited entirely  by  men  and  women  of  Hilda's  type  —  but  he 
knew  that  his  friends  could  not  be  hers.  It  was  better  to  avoid  all 
social  connections  than  to  rouse  groundless  but  hideous  suspicion. 

As  the  years  passed  it  seemed  likely  that  Hilda's  malady 
would  grow  no  worse.  Her  uncle  felt  no  more  anxiety,  and  Ste- 
phen relaxed  into  a  certain  peace  of  mind.  He  became  thirty- 
five,  then  forty.  He  believed  that  the  course  of  his  life  was  laid 
out,  and  that,  unsatisfying  as  it  was,  it  was  still  happier  than 
that  of  the  mass  of  mankind.  There  were  moments  when  he  said 
to  himself  that  there  was  no  reason  for  his  existence  or  that  of 
any  one  else,  that  human  life  was  ephemeral  and  purposeless ;  but 
he  put  aside  quickly  all  metaphysical  speculation  because  it  re- 
called his  father's  last  hours  and  the  deep  concern  in  his  sunken 
eyes. 


CHAPTER  V 

LEVIS  SPEAKS  HIS  MIND 

Levis  was  the  onl}^  member  of  his  family  who  had  a  great  deal 
to  say  on  the  Sunday  following  Matthew's  declaration  of  faith. 
At  meals  Matthew  ate  with  his  eyes  fixed  upon  his  plate,  and 
Ellen  wiped  away  an  occasional  tear.  Several  times  since  the  sad 
events  of  yesterday  she  had  tried  to  open  the  door  of  Matthew's 
room,  to  tell  him  that  she  was  sorry  she  had  made  him  ashamed 
and  to  lay  before  him  the  reasons  for  her  conduct,  but  the  door 
was  locked.  Lying  in  wait  outside  had  been  productive  of  no  bet- 
ter results,  for,  appearing  at  last,  he  had  quietly  brushed  her 
aside.  Manda  was  more  mournful  than  the  young  people.  She  did 
not  weep,  but  the  tip  of  her  nose  showed  that  she  had  wept  in 
the  recent  past. 

When  supper  was  over,  Levis  addressed  his  family,  one  after 
the  other. 

"Matthew,  what  are  you  going  to  do  this  evening?" 

"I'm  going  to  bed,"  answered  Matthew  in  a  low  tone.  "I  prom- 
ised to  help  with  the  wheat  in  the  morning.  Soon  it  will  be  a  loss." 

Levis's  eyes  twinkled.  Matthew  had  lately  shown  an  inclina- 
tion to  observe  that  his  father's  methods  of  farming  were  not 
those  of  the  thrifty  neighbors. 

"Manda,  where  are  you  going?" 

"In  my  church,"  Manda  answered  in  a  tone  at  once  humble 
and  reproachful.  She  was  always  a  person  of  few  words,  but  her 
ability  to  express  a  variety  of  meanings  with  a  H'm  or  with  the 
valuable  So!  of  the  Pennsylvania  Germans  made  a  large  vocabu- 
lary unnecessary. 

Again  Levis's  eyes  twinkled  and  again  he  thought  of  Mrs. 
Gummidge,  ever  mourning  for  "the  old  one." 

"And  Ellen?" 

Ellen's  tears  refused  to  be  longer  restrained.  She  rose  from  her 
chair  and  went  to  her  father. 

"Matthew  won't  speak  to  me.  I  went  up  seven  times  to  tell 
him  that  I  was  sorry  and  he  would  n't  open  the  door." 


40  ELLEN  LEVIS 

Levis  led  Ellen  into  his  office. 

"Matthew  is  best  left  alone.  He'll  come  round,  never  fear!  I 
have  a  visit  to  make  which  will  keep  me  out  till  after  dark.  There 
is  a  book  and  Matthew  will  hear  you  if  you  call.  If  you  get 
sleepy,  go  to  bed." 

Levis  kissed  her  and  put  on  his  hat  and  went  away.  He  did 
not  carry  his  satchel  of  medicines  nor  go  to  the  barn  to  put  his 
horse  into  the  buggy,  but  walked  down  the  short  lane  to  the 
road.  Ellen  watched  him  until  he  reached  the  gate,  and  stood  for 
a  moment  listening  to  the  church  bells  in  Ephrata.  When  he 
went  on  his  way,  she  turned  with  forgetfulness  of  all  troubles  to 
''  David  Copperfield."  The  first  paragraphs  puzzled  her,  but  she 
did  not  linger.  Mercifully,  one  did  not  need  to  understand  every- 
thing in  a  book  in  order  to  get  intense  enjoyment  out  of  it. 

Levis  retraced  Ellen's  journey  of  yesterday,  except  that  he 
climbed  no  fences,  but  kept  to  the  road  until  he  reached  the 
strange  group  of  old  buildings  in  the  hollow,  now  more  uncanny 
than  ever  in  the  twilight.  They  were  entirely  dark,  and  about 
them  in  his  imagination  ghosts  seemed  to  wander,  some  of  them 
saintly  and  all  pitifully  deluded.  These  old  buildings  had 
trapped  him;  entering  them  from  curiosity  soon  after  he  had 
taken  the  practice  of  the  old  doctor,  he  had  come  out  be- 
witched, unable  to  free  himself,  the  course  of  his  life  changed. 

Midway  between  an  outer  and  an  inner  gate  he  stood  still. 
He  was  in  the  little  enclosure  beside  the  public  highway 
where  for  a  hundred  and  seventy  years  the  Seventh-Day  Bap- 
tists had  buried  their  dead.  Here  were  no  ornate  monuments,  but 
a  few  rows  of  simple  stones,  some  sunk  deep  into  the  soil.  One,  a 
little  larger  and  whiter  than  the  rest,  seemed  to  invite  contempla- 
tion. Levis  glanced  at  it,  hesitated  for  an  instant,  and  then  went 
on.  He  knew  well  how  unimportant  are  the  remains  of  mortality 
and  that  it  is  mockery  even  to  pause  beside  a  grave  in  which 
lies  the  object  of  a  love,  extinguished  not  by  death,  but  by  life. 
The  shadowy  stone  recalled  not  grief  born  when  Mary  died,  but 
miseries  struggled  with  long  before. 

As  he  passed  through  the  second  gate  he  heard  voices.  Beside 
the  tall,  steep-roofed  buildings  stood  a  little  cottage  where  lived 
Grandfather,  the  guardian  of  the  property,  and  Amos,  his 
nephew,  protege,  and  familiar.  Pleased  with  the  attendance  at 


ELLEN  LEVIS  41 

yesterday's  meeting,  the  two  sat  together  on  the  porch,  now  for 
a  long  time  silent,  now  in  earnest  conversation.  There  was  now 
no  prophet's  fire  in  Grandfather's  eyes.  He  sat  comfortably  in 
an  old  armchair,  the  wristbands  of  his  unstarched  shirt  turned 
back  over  his  coat  sleeves,  his  loosely  hanging  hands,  his  air 
of  negligent  repose  suggesting  the  portraits  of  the  aged  Whit- 
man. 

He  spoke  rapidly  and  easily,  the  young  man  more  slowly  and 
in  a  questioning  tone.  The  prophet's  mantle  seemed  to  Amos  a 
heavy  robe,  though  his  piety  w^as  sincere  and  he  looked,  even 
more  than  Grandfather,  the  part  of  saint.  His  features  were 
beautifully  modeled;  his  thick  and  curling  hair  was  worn  a  little 
long,  in  faint  imitation  of  the  pious  hermits  of  long  ago.  His 
slightly  parted  lips  and  w^ide  gray  eyes  gave  him  a  look  of  ex- 
pectancy which  was  the  expression  of  his  hopes.  He  anticipated 
that  the  faith  which  filled  his  soul  would  be  quickened  by  mys- 
tical visions.  It  had  been  so  in  this  holy  place,  it  would  be  so 
once  more.  Grandfather  had  assured  him  of  it  a  hundred  times. 

Grandfather  believed  that  in  establishing  in  Amos  a  preoccu- 
pation with  spiritual  things  and  with  his  own  soul,  he  had  done 
him  an  inestimable  service,  but  to  Levis  this  preoccupation  was 
unwholesome  and  unpleasant.  He  felt  contempt  for  Amos  and 
avoided  whenever  possible  the  sight  of  his  feminine  beauty. 
Neither  Le\ds  nor  any  one  else  had  realized  that  Amos,  with  his 
magnificent  frame,  his  delicate  beard,  his  long  hair,  his  literary 
aspirations,  and  his  formal  meditations,  was  not  tragic  nor 
profound  nor  despicable,  but  perilously  like  a  figure  of  comedy. 

The  two  did  not  hear  the  closing  of  the  gate,  and  the  end  of 
their  discourse  came  distinctly  to  ears  already  burning. 

"It  is  a  fine  thing  for  us  that  young  Matthew  has  taken  this 
stand.  I  'm  not  afraid  for  the  little  one  —  it  was  doubtless  con- 
viction of  sin  which  made  her  run  away.  I  will  see  her  alone, 
and  then  she  too  will  come  into  the  fold.  It  has  been  distinctly 
prophesied  to  me  in  dreams  that  with  you  three  anything  might 
be  done,  Matthew  the  head  of  a  secular  congregation,  you  of  a 
restored  brotherhood,  and  Ellen  of  a  sisterhood." 

Levis  laid  his  hand  on  his  heart  in  an  habitual  and,  almost 
invariably,  an  unconscious  gesture.  The  blood  seemed  to  beat 
behind  his  eyes  and  in  his  throat.  He  had  never  been  so  angry. 


42  ELLEN  LEVIS 

"It  comes  to  me  sometimes  that  my  life  was  all  wrong," 
sighed  Grandfather.  "In  my  youth  I  had  a  call  to  remain  single. 
But  I  was  like  others  —  weak.  When  a  Seventh-Day  Baptist  shall 
show  by  his  life  that  he  really  believes  the  assurances  of  God, 
then  the  Spirit  will  descend  in  rich  measure,  and  we  shall  have 
again  our  hundreds  devoted  to  prayer  and  to  good  works." 

A  flattered  Amos  tightened  the  grasp  of  one  hand  upon  an- 
other. He  knew  that  he  was  the  foundation  upon  which  his 
uncle's  hopes  were  built,  but  he  had  never  heard  it  so  plainly 
stated.  He  felt  his  heart  burn,  he  seemed  to  see  a  light  over  the 
steep  roof  of  the  Saal,  and  he  belie\'ed  that  a  higher  authority 
than  his  uncle  was  going  to  communicate  with  him.  Then  he  saw 
a  tall  man  approaching  from  the  gate. 

"There  is  some  one  here,  Uncle." 

"It's  Levis,"  said  a  crisp  and  angry  voice.  "Father  Mil- 
hausen,  I  want  a  few  words  with  you." 

"Sit  down,  Edward,"  said  the  old  man. 

"I'd  rather  talk  where  there's  a  light."  Levis  tried  to  keep 
his  voice  steady.  He  did  not  mean  to  have  any  of  his  words  go 
trailing  off  into  the  darkness  without  hitting  their  mark.  More- 
over, he  meant,  if  need  be,  to  quarrel  and  perhaps  to  storm,  and 
he  did  not  think  it  decent  to  quarrel  so  near  the  white  tomb- 
stone. 

"All  right,  I'm  willing."  The  old  man  rose.  "Amos,  make  a 
light." 

The  coal-oil  lamp  revealed  a  little  room  which  was  at  once 
kitchen  and  sitting-room.  It  contained  a  stove,  now  cold,  a  table, 
a  shelf  holding  Latin  and  German  books,  and  another  holding 
specimens  of  ancient  pottery.  All  was  bare  and  neat. 

The  human  element  was  far  more  interesting  than  the  furni- 
ture. Old  Milhausen  stood  for  a  moment  stroking  his  white 
beard.  His  dark  eyes,  half  covered  by  heavy  lids,  looked  down- 
ward without  seeing  —  he  was  praying  for  wisdom.  Amos  stood 
close  to  the  table  fitting  a  shade  over  the  glaring  light. 

"Perhaps  I'd  better  go,"  said  he  humbly.  "I  don't  wish  to  be 
where  I  have  no  business." 

"There's  no  reason  why  you  should  go,"  said  Levis  lightly. 
"  I  'd  like  to  have  you  hear  what  I  say,  so  that  there  may  be  no 
misunderstanding  between  any  of  us."  He  sat  down  in  a  plain 


ELLEN  LEVIS  43 

wooden  chair  by  the  table  and  Amos  sat  down  on  a  bench  on 
the  other  side. 

Grandfather  opened  his  eyes,  hav^ing  been  assured,  in  some 
fashion  which  he  understood,  of  help  from  on  high.  He  saw  that 
his  son-in-law  was  angry  and  he  determined  to  quiet  him  if 
possible.  Edward  was  not  one  who  bore  the  dispensations  of 
God  easily. 

"This  has  been  a  very  pleasant  — " 

Levis  had  not  come  to  talk  about  pleasant  things. 

*'I  don't  like  discussions  and  quarreling,"  said  he.  "I  have 
not  had  a  bitter  word  with  you  since  the  hateful  scene  you 
forced  upon  me  at  Mary's  bedside,  but  now  you  have  brought 
about  the  occasion  for  another  scene. 

"I  promised  Mary  that  the  children  should  not  be  influenced 
against  her  religion,  and  that  I  'd  let  them  go  to  meeting.  I  've 
kept  my  word  partly  because  I  usually  keep  promises,  but  more 
because  I  did  n't  believe  that  two  children  brought  up  in  this 
century  in  my  house  would  accept  the  teachings  of  your  sect. 
I"  —  Levis  raised  a  silencing  hand.  Grandfather  smiled,  then, 
instead  of  going  on  with  the  remark  which  he  had  tried  to  begin, 
he  hid  his  lips  —  "I  still  don't  believe  it,  even  though  Mat- 
thew came  home  yesterday  thinking  he  was  *  converted.' 

"While  I  've  kept  my  promise,  you  've  broken  yours.  Yesterday, 
publicly,  you  called  on  two  impressionable  children,  hypnotized 
by  darkness  and  heavy  air  and  too  much  vague  preaching,  to 
confess  the  most  foolish  beliefs.  You  did  worse  than  that  — 
you  put  them  into  a  position  where  it  seemed  wicked  not  to 
confess  them.  I  don't  doubt  that  Matthew  would  give  any- 
thing in  the  world  to  forget  that  he  made  such  a  conspicuous 
fool  of  himself.  Fortunately  Ellen  was  more  frightened  than  im- 
pressed. 

"What  I  have  to  say  about  the  matter  is  this  —  Matthew  is 
going  to  college  in  the  fall  and  until  then  he  will  come  no  more 
to  church.  If  after  he  has  been  at  college  and  medical  school, 
he  chooses  to  believe  as  you  do,  you  may  have  him." 

"I'm  not  afraid  for  Matthew,"  said  old  Milhausen.  "I  was 
bidden  to  break  my  word.  I  had  plain  directions." 

"You  see  nothing  Jesuitical  in  that,  I  suppose?  Well,  neither 
am  I  afraid  for  Matthew.  Now  about  Ellen  — " 


44  ELLEN  LEVIS 

"I'll  say  no  more  to  Ellen,"  promised  Grandfather  uneasily. 
Ellen  was  far  more  than  Matthew  his  darling,  the  delight  of  his 
eyes. 

"That  is  so;  you  will  not,"  agreed  Levis.  He  rose  and  took  his 
hat  from  the  table.  The  others  rose  also,  Grandfather  towering 
above  the  younger  men.  Deeply  disturbed,  he  tried  to  fathom 
Levis 's  meaning. 

Amos  understood  Levis.  He  had  watched  Ellen  since  she  was 
a  baby;  he  had  seen  her  growing  toward  womanhood  and  he  be- 
lieved that  he  loved  only  her  soul. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  about  Ellen?"  he  asked. 

It  seemed  for  a  moment  that  Levis  meant  to  brush  by  him 
without  answering.  Then  he  said  to  himself  that  it  was  just  as 
well  to  let  Grandfather  and  this  saintly  young  whipper-snapper 
have  their  just  deserts  together  and  at  once. 

"Ellen  will  come  no  more  to  meeting.  You  have  had  your 
chance  at  her  now  during  all  her  most  impressionable  years,  for 
which  I  blame  myself.  I  should  have  broken  my  promise  long 
before  you  broke  yours." 

"God  Almighty  will  require  her  soul  of  you!"  Grand- 
father's calmness  vanished,  he  spoke  with  gathering  power 
and  shrillness.  "You  came  here  a  stranger,  you  beguiled  my 
daughter,  she  married  you  against  my  will  and  against  her  con- 
science, but  she  saw  very  soon  that  there  was  no  joy  in  such 
a  marriage.  She  gave  me  her  children  as  a  holy  gift,  and  if  I 
died  without  knowing  they  were  safe,  I  could  n't  be  happy  in 
eternity!" 

"They're  my  children  as  well  as  hers,"  answered  Levis.  "I 
have  just  as  keen  a  sense  of  responsibility  as  you.  You've  had 
more  than  your  share  of  their  souls.  You've  taught  them  super- 
stition, now  I'll  teach  them  the  truth." 

"Superstition!"  Grandfather  made  a  sweeping  gesture  in  the 
direction  of  the  dim  old  buildings.  "What  do  you  believe, 
Edward?" 

"I  believe  in  an  undefinable  creative  power,"  answered  Levis 
sharply.  "As  for  revelation  or  miracles  or  immortality  or  divin- 
ity come  to  earth  —  they  are  delusions  created  by  the  imagi- 
nation of  men  as  panaceas  for  the  fear  of  death." 

The  old  man  clasped  his  hands,  anger  transmuted  into  terror. 


ELLEN  LEVIS  45 

"Immortality!"  he  repeated.  "You  don't  doubt  immortal- 
ity?" 

"I  think  we  shall  be  immortal  as  part  of  the  revolving 
earth." 

"Will  you  tell  Ellen  that?  "  asked  Grandfather  in  a  whisper. 

"No,"  said  Levis.  "If  Ellen  has  as  good  a  mind  as  I  think  she 
has,  she  will  find  all  that  out  for  herself.  Good-night." 

Amos  barred  the  way  to  the  door. 

"We  will  pray  for  them  and  you,"  said  he. 

"I  have  no  objections,"  answered  Levis.  "Pray  away!" 

When  the  door  was  shut,  Amos  saw  that  Grandfather  was 
weeping. 

"Don't  worry,  Uncle,"  said  he.  "Matthew  is  safe.  I'm  con- 
fident of  it.  And  Ellen  will  come  to  school  for  two  more  years. 
She  will  not  forget." 

"He  came  into  our  meeting  from  curiosity.  He  took  all  I  had. 
He  made  her  like  a  mad  creature;  she  had  only  one  thought 
and  that  was  to  be  with  him.  But  she  was  punished,  poor,  poor 
Mary!  and  now  she  is  sanctified." 

Amos's  cheeks  burned  again.  He  was  curious  about  such 
madness. 

"They  did  n't  live  long  together?" 

"Four  years.  At  first  he  was  determined  to  go  away,  but  this 
Mary  resisted.  She  was  like  the  Anastasia  of  whom  our  records 
tell.  The  better  spirit  had  begun  to  work  upon  her  and  she  knew 
that  if  she  went  from  the  shelter  of  this  place  she  was  lost." 

"I'm  not  afraid  for  these  children,"  said  Amos  again. 

But  he  spoke  absently.  When  the  old  man  had  gone  to  bed, 
he  went  outside  and  walked  up  and  down  in  the  thick  grass. 
After  a  long  time,  when  it  was  so  late  that  passers-by  were  few 
and  no  headlights  cast  their  glare  over  the  little  cemetery,  he 
passed  through  the  gate  and  stood  by  the  white  stone,  thinking 
of  the  cousin  whose  beauty  he  remembered,  in  whom  love  was 
a  sort  of  madness.  Yet  religion  had  been  more  to  her  than  love ! 
A  dreadful  word  which  Levis  had  used  tempted  him  —  was  she 
not  a  fool  to  give  up  love?  It  seemed  to  him  that  the  fragrant 
night  was  resonant  with  voices,  calling  vaguely  and  unhappily. 
He  looked  dov/n  upon  the  white  stone  and  traced  with  his  hand 
the  inscription  which  he  had  read  a  thousand  times : 


46  ELLEN  LEVIS 

Mary 

Wife  of 

Edward  Levis 

Daughter  of 

Abraham  Milhausen 

Aged  25  years 

Suddenly  he  shivered.  The  tradition  of  hearts  unsatisfied 
was  more  potent  than  that  of  the  peace  of  the  saints.  Then  he 
went  indoors  and  prayed  God  to  forgive  him.  It  was  his  object 
to  keep  himself  unspotted,  to  guard  his  soul  unceasingly.  His 
ignorance  of  the  world  was  well-nigh  unlimited. 

Levis  walked  back  more  rapidly  than  he  had  come.  It  was 
against  his  habit  to  think  much  of  the  past,  and  now  the  future 
held  a  new  interest.  It  was  a  relief,  moreover,  to  have  spoken 
his  mind,  and  because  of  it  he  felt  greater  toleration  for  Grand- 
father. For  beautiful  Amos  he  continued  to  have  only  con- 
tempt. He  wished  that  it  was  already  September  so  that  he 
could  send  Matthew  away. 

Another  educational  project  he  meant  to  put  into  execution  at 
once.  He  went  whistling  up  the  lane,  noticed  without  pausing  the 
blackness  of  the  woodland  and  the  slender  moon  hanging  above, 
and  pushing  open  the  door  found  Ellen  asleep,  her  book  clutched  in 
her  arms.  The  light  was  burning  dimly  and  beneath  it  lay  a  note: 

"I  did  not  go  to  bed  because  of  the  *phone.  Matthew  is  asleep. 
I  listened  at  his  door." 

Levis  stood  and  looked  down  upon  plump  Ellen.  Her  cheeks 
were  flushed  and  beadlike  drops  stood  upon  her  upper  lip.  Her 
curls  had  come  out  of  their  ribbon  and  clustered  about  her  face; 
her  relaxed  body  seemed  tall.  Levis  drew  up  a  chair  and  sat 
down  to  a  closer  contemplation.  She  bore  no  resemblance  to  her 
mother  —  Matthew  had  the  maternal  inheritance.  In  spite  of 
her  discouragement  over  yesterday's  quiz,  she  had  exhibited  a 
surprising  maturity  of  mind. 

At  this  minute  she  stirred  and  smiled  and  appeared  for  an 
instant  to  lose  her  childishness  in  a  riper  charm.  Tears  filled  her 
father's  eyes.  Perhaps  he  should  yet  have  companionship  in  his 
own  household ! 


ELLEN  LEVIS  47 

Presently  he  turned  to  look  round  the  room;  then  he  rose  and 
brought  from  somewhere  in  the  house  a  little  table  and  set  it  by 
the  window.  He  went  out  again  and  reappeared  with  a  handful 
of  books,  worn  and  dog-eared,  and  sitting  at  his  desk,  looked 
through  them;  then  taking  a  sheet  of  paper  wrote  several  lines 
upon  which  he  seemed  to  ponder.  He  glanced  at  Ellen  as  though 
he  meditated  rousing  her  to  aid  in  this  planning,  but  thought 
better  of  it,  and  laid  books  and  papers  and  two  carefully  sharp- 
ened pencils  on  the  little  table  together. 

Then  he  lifted  Ellen  herself.  Before  he  reached  the  doorway 
she  opened  her  eyes  drowsily. 

'*0h,  it's  you!"  said  she  heavdly  and  with  deep  content. 

He  was  not  yet  through  with  his  family.  Coming  back  into  his 
room,  his  hand  again  pressed  upon  his  side  as  though  Ellen's 
weight  had  exhausted  him,  he  found  a  figure,  large,  bonneted, 
with  hands  humbly  folded.  He  had  a  dreadful  fear  that  Manda 
meant  to  announce  her  departure. 

"Well,  Manda!" 

"I  have  something  to  say,"  said  Manda  in  her  humblest 
tone. 

"Sit  down,  do." 

Manda  shook  her  head.  There  were  proprieties  to  be  observed 
by  a  widow  in  her  position  and  she  knew  them. 

"I  should  be  called  Mrs.  Sassaman,"  said  she.  "I  don't  mind 
Manda,  but  it  is  as  if  I  had  lost  respect  for  him." 

Levis  suppressed  a  hysterical  impulse. 

"Of  course  you  shall  be  called  Mrs.  Sassaman!"  said  he.  "We 
have  all  been  thoughtless." 

When  she  had  gone,  he  lay  dowm  upon  the  old  sofa,  still  show- 
ing the  impress  of  Ellen's  body.  He  had  thought  of  himself  till 
this  moment  as  a  young  man,  but  a  man  is  young  no  longer 
when  his  son  sets  up  his  will  against  him.  He  looked  age  in  the 
face;  he  remembered  the  senility  through  which  many  pass  to 
their  end.  Then  he  turned  his  cheek  against  the  pillow  which  was 
warm  and  a  little  damp.  It  somehow  comforted  him. 


CHAPTER  VI 

STUDYING  IN  VACATION 

Anticipation  of  some  unusual  happening  woke  Ellen  early  on 
Monday  morning.  She  lay  for  an  instant  staring  at  the  white- 
washed  walls,  at  the  carved  pineapples  tipping  the  posts  of  her 
huge  bed,  and  finally  at  a  picture  above  her  bureau  in  which 
General  Washington,  in  red  trousers,  a  sky-blue  coat,  and  white 
wig,  bowed  to  the  admiring  applause  of  a  large  throng. 

She  sat  up,  clasped  her  hands  about  her  knees,  and  looked  down 
upon  the  wheat-field  where  already  the  first  swath  had  been 
cut  by  hand  and  where  the  reaper,  driven  by  Matthew,  was  about 
to  begin  its  more  rapid  work.  x4t  once  she  sprang  from  bed.  It 
was  Monday  and  a  harvest  day  and  Manda  would  be  cross. 
Saturday  and  Sunday  had  been,  in  spite  of  their  woe,  interest- 
ing, but  to-day  promised  only  dullness. 

But  to-day  was  to  have  an  interest  of  its  own.  She  washed  the 
dishes  and  peeled  a  mammoth  bowl  of  potatoes,  then  she  made 
up  the  beds,  spreading  the  covers  with  care  and  beating  the 
pillows  vigorously.  When  she  had  finished,  she  heard  her  name 
called  and  went  down  to  the  office.  Her  father  sat  at  his  desk, 
a  score  of  little  white  papers  before  him  on  each  of  which  he  was 
laying  a  bit  of  powder  from  a  wide-mouthed  jar.  He  seemed  to 
fit  in  less  well  than  usual  with  his  surroundings,  the  old  book- 
cases, the  rag  carpet,  the  worn  furniture. 

"Shut  the  door,  Ellen." 

Ellen  did  as  she  was  bid.  She  lifted  a  corner  of  the  ugly 
gingham  apron  which  hung  far  below  the  bottom  of  her  skirt 
and  wiped  her  perspiring  face.  It  was  exactly  a  gesture  of  Mrs. 
Sassaman's. 

"Take  your  apron  out  to  the  kitchen!"  Levis  spoke  with  un- 
reasonable sharpness,  not  toward  Ellen,  but  toward  the  apron. 

"Now,  Ellen"  —  when  the  last  of  the  little  powders  had 
been  folded  —  "I  don't  believe  that  all  mental  activity  should 
cease  because  the  weather  is  warm.  For  two  hours  each  day  — 
morning  or  afternoon  or  evening,  whichever  pleases  you  and 


ELLEN  LEVIS  49 

Mrs.  Sassaman  —  you  are  to  sit  on  yonder  chair  and  study. 
Each  day  I  shall  set  you  a  lesson  which  you  must  have  ready  by 
the  next  day.  The  machinery  in  your  head  is  good,  but  it  needs 
steady  use.  First  we  shall  have  an  examination.  I've  marked 
on  that  paper  a  number  of  sums  which  I  selected  from  your 
arithmetic.  There  are  twenty  of  them.  Then  here"  —  Levis 
opened  a  little  book — "is  something  new.  It's  absurd  that 
you  should  n't  have  been  taught  about  your  own  body.  To- 
morrow morning  at  this  time,  I'll  expect  you  to  tell  me  about 
these  ten  pages  and  to  show  me  your  examples.  Get  them  done 
neatly." 

Ellen  grew  pale  with  the  intensity  of  her  emotions.  The  lesson 
seemed  long,  but  she  was  not  one  to  hesitate  when  things  were 
hard. 

"  But  I  will  get  ahead  of  my  class !  I  don't  know  whether  Amos 
will  like  that,  Father." 

"His  likes  or  dislikes  make  very  little  difference." 

"And  Matthew  will  think  it's  silly.  He  sa3^s  that  when  girls 
get  learning  they  are  like  peacocks  spreading  their  tails  in  the 
air." 

"In  spite  of  Matthew  we  shall  proceed." 

Thus  encouraged,  Ellen  crossed  the  room  and  laid  her  books 
and  paper  on  the  little  table.  "Example  4,  page  50,"  she  WTote, 
referring  to  her  father's  list.  Then  she  put  the  tip  of  her  pencil 
into  her  mouth  and  laid  herself  bodily  upon  the  table. 

Levis  pushed  under  her  feet  an  old  ottoman. 

"Sit  up,  Ellen,  sit  up!  And  never  put  anything  but  food  into 
your  mouth;  no  pencils  or  fingers!" 

Ellen  flushed.  She  was  often  offended  by  the  habits  of  others; 
she  now  saw  herself  sprawling,  and  blushed  scarlet.  With  the 
blush  her  childish  unconsciousness  of  self  vanished. 

"And  don't  chew  your  tongue,  my  dear!" 

"I  won't,"  she  promised,  deeply  mortified. 

Example  4,  page  50,  was  promptly  finished  and  ruled  off,  and 
Example  8,  page  58,  was  begun.  Levis  fetched  the  morning  paper 
and  the  mail  from  the  rural  delivery  box  and  sat  down  to  read. 
It  was  only  eight  o'clock,  and  he  did  not  start  upon  his  round 
till  nine.  Sometimes  he  s:lanced  tov*^ard  the  window  where  the 
scholar  labored,  jerking  herself  frequently  into  the  upright  posi- 


50  ELLEN  LEVIS 

tlon  which  she  had  momentarily  lost,  and  striving  with  many 
backslidings  to  control  the  motions  of  a  tongue  which  had  hitherto 
assisted  in  all  mental  processes.  Presently  Matthew,  covered  with 
dust  and  grime  and  perspiration,  exhibited  with  stoical  pride  a 
cut  hand.  Frowning,  Levis  bathed  and  dressed  the  injury.  The 
clean  hand  and  the  white  bandage  looked  out  of  place. 

"Matthew,  this  is  entirely  unnecessary." 

*'The  wheat  must  be  cut." 

"There  are  enough  people  to  cut  the  wheat.  We  had  better 
lose  a  part  than  have  you  hurt  your  hands." 

"It  is  nothing,"  protested  Matthew. 

"This  work  hardens  your  skin  and  a  physician  can't  have 
hard  hands.  Get  a  bath  and  change  your  clothes  and  don't  go 
back." 

"The  men  expect  me  back!" 

Levis  made  no  answer,  and  Matthew  went  out  sullenly.  He 
thought  that  Ellen  was  being  punished  for  yesterday's  misbe- 
havior and  felt  somewhat  mollified.  But  he  wanted  to  go  out 
to  the  fields.  The  men  would  laugh  at  him.  He  did  n't  care 
about  his  hands  and  he  was  determined  not  to  be  a  physician. 

"I  could  make  more  money  farming  than  Father  does  doc- 
toring—  a  great  deal  more.  I  don't  want  to  go  away;  I  want 
to  stay  here." 

After  changing  his  clothes,  he  sat  by  the  window.  His  room 
was  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  house  from  the  wheat-field  and 
the  men  would  not  see  him.  It  was  bad  enough  that  they  should 
see  his  father  idling.  And  Ellen  should  not  be  writing;  they 
would  think  that  she  was  playing.  A  host  of  angry  protests 
crowded  into  his  mind.  He  had  been  for  a  long  time  critical  of 
his  father  and  now  his  father's  opposition  to  the  true  religion 
gave  him  the  right  to  express  his  disapproval. 

He  reached  out  and  took  his  Bible  from  the  little  stand.  It 
had  been  given  him  by  his  grandfather,  who  had  marked  many 
of  the  passages,  and  he  turned  from  page  to  page.  There  was  one 
verse  about  being  persecuted  and  reviled  for  conscience'  sake 
which  he  smoothed  with  his  hand.  Other  verses  came  into  his 
mind  about  separating  one's  self  from  one's  family  on  account 
of  their  disbelief.  He  saw  himself  a  hero,  admired  and  set  on 
high  by  the  church  people.   He  might   leave   his   home   and 


ELLEN  LEVIS  51 

go  to  live  with  Grandfather.  He  thought  of  MilHe  whose  eyes 
gleamed  at  him  so  pleasantly  and  so  strangely. 

But  before  he  had  got  beyond  the  most  vague  of  speculations, 
he  found  himself  rising  from  his  chair  in  response  to  a  summons 
from  below.  Even  yet  his  father  lingered ! 

"Matthew,"  said  Levis  cheerfully,  "I  think  that  you,  too, 
should  do  some  studying.  Here  is  the  University  catalogue  show- 
ing the  character  of  your  examinations.  Get  your  books  together 
and  after  dinner  we  '11  go  over  the  subjects  and  see  whether  you 
are  entirely  prepared." 

*'I  have  all  my  examples  done  already,"  announced  Ellen 
proudly  at  this  ill-selected  moment.  "Now  I'm  to  study  physi- 
ology." 

Matthew  flushed.  So  Ellen  had  not  been  punished  at  all! 
And  he  was  to  be  set  down  beside  a  baby  to  study  in  vacation. 
But  again  he  moved  obediently. 

The  examination  proved  that  Amos  had  done  his  work  well. 
Matthew's  mind,  if  mechanical  in  its  operations,  was  tenacious 
of  that  which  it  had  once  grasped.  Mathematics  he  found  diffi- 
cult, but  not  impossible;  German  was  one  of  his  native  tongues; 
Latin  had  been  easy,  thanks  to  the  fact  that  some  of  the  early 
writings  of  the  Seventh-Day  Baptists  were  in  that  language  and 
that  Amos,  poring  over  them,  had  acquired  thorough  knowledge 
and  had  imparted  it  to  his  pupil.  In  elementary  science,  he  was 
not  well  prepared  and  his  father  made  ready  to  remedy  the 
deficiency. 

"We  can  easily  rig  up  a  little  laboratory,  and  when  you  see 
these  experiments  and  perform  them,  you  won't  find  them  hard.'* 

"I  don't  see  any  use  in  it,"  complained  Matthew,  almost  in 
tears. 

"But  you  will.  And  you  must  do  more  English  reading.  Both 
you  and  Ellen  use  abominable  idioms.  Here  are  a  dozen  pre- 
scribed books." 

"I  don't  like  to  read,"  said  Matthew.  "I  don't  believe  it's 
meant  for  us  to  read  much  except  the  Word  of  God." 

Levis  looked  at  his  son  with  an  intense,  satiric  amusement. 
But  he  made  no  comment.  In  a  few  months  INIatthew  would  be 
sitting  under  teachers  whose  elaborate  astonishment  at  stupidity 
Levis  remembered.  He  would  like  to  hurry  him  away  to-day. 


52  ELLEN  LEVIS 

He  needed  to  see  himself  as  others  saw  him ;  he  needed  to  meet 
amused  and  astonished  eyes,  to  hear  the  smothered  laughter  of 
fellow  students  at  his  boorish  ways.  It  could  not  be  that  the  boy 
was  irreclaimable  who  yesterday  was  playing  with  his  blocks  on 
the  floor! 

"You'd  better  go  to  your  room,  Matthew.  You  should  study 
four  or  five  hours  a  day  and  you're  likely  to  be  interrupted 
here." 

Matthew  went  slowly  upstairs.  For  a  v/hile  he  sat  idle;  then 
hearing  his  father's  voice,  he  opened  his  books.  They  proved 
hateful;  a  few  weeks  without  mental  effort  had  made  thinking 
difficult.  He  heard  Ellen,  now  that  her  father  had  driven  away, 
chanting  the  names  of  bones  and  he  shouted  fiercely  to  her  to  be 
still.  He  was  even  young  enough  to  shed  tears.  Then  he  prayed 
for  strength  to  bear  the  extraordinary  burdens  of  his  lot  and  it 
seemed  to  him  that  his  task  was  lighter.  Once,  lifting  his  eyes 
from  his  book,  he  looked  steadily  for  a  long  time  at  the  wall. 
He  was  following  a  pleasant  train  of  thought  which  had  for  some 
time  received  a  subconscious  attention.  He  was  planning  what 
should  be  done  with  the  farm  if  he  had  it.  It  was  a  delightful 
occupation. 

After  dinner  Ellen,  who  had  hitherto  always  obeyed  Matthew 
and  every  one  else  who  had  given  her  commands,  ceased  her 
singing  and  studying  and  went  upstairs,  creeping  softly  on 
hands  and  knees.  It  could  not  be  that  Matthew  would  con- 
tinue '*mad"  much  longer.  At  other  times  he  had  been  angry 
for  a  day  and  a  night,  but  now  a  day  and  a  night  had  passed. 
Unfortunately  she  did  not  let  her  approach  be  known  and 
Matthew,  looking  up  from  his  meditations,  saw  her  standing 
in  the  doorway.  As  much  startled  and  alarmed  as  though  she 
had  read  his  thoughts,  he  flew  into  a  rage. 

"You  sneak  on  me,  do  you?  I  just  tell  you  this,  Ellen,  you'll 
get  your  punishment,  never  fear !  A  girl  to  run  out  of  church  and 
refuse  to  listen  to  the  words  of  her  good  grandfather !  You  know 
what  happens  to  bad  people  —  that  will  happen  to  you  unless 
you  repent.  The  Bible  says  we  shan't  have  anything  to  do  with 
people  who  don't  do  right.  I'll  speak  to  you,  but  I  won't  have 
anything  more  to  do  with  you  until  you  say  you  are  sorry  for  the 
way  you  acted.  Get  out  of  my  room!" 


I 


ELLEN  LEVIS  53 

Ellen  got  out  quickly  and  went  down  the  stairs.  In  the  office 
she  hid  her  face  in  the  pillows  of  the  old  sofa.  She  understood 
now  that  the  house  was  divided;  she  felt  division  in  her  own 
heart.  The  teaching  of  the  Seventh-Day  Baptists  was  the  only 
religious  teaching  she  had  ever  had  —  perhaps  Matthew  was 
right.  Then  what  would  become  of  her  father  who  did  not  go  to 
church.^  And  what  would  become  of  her  who  fled  from  church? 


CHAPTER  VII 

AN  EVENING  PILGRIMAGE 

That  Grandfather  would  give  up  the  children  without  a  struggle 
was  unlikely.  When  a  month  had  passed  and  they  had  not  reap- 
peared at  service,  he  went  to  visit  his  son-in-law,  taking  Amos 
with  him.  It  was  Sunday  evening  and  the  church  bells  were 
ringing.  He  carried  a  long  staff,  and  looked,  with  his  silvery 
beard  and  his  unearthly  expression,  exactly  like  the  early  pil- 
grims, worn  by  vigils  and  fasting,  who  had  set  out  from  this  spot 
in  summer's  heat  and  winter's  cold  to  gather  into  the  Net  of 
Heavenly  Wisdom  all  who  were  willing  to  be  caught  therein. 
Across  this  undulating  land,  then  thickly  forested,  had  traveled 
not  only  Seventh-Day  Baptists,  but  Moravian  and  Mennonite, 
Dunker,  Quaker,  and  New  Mooner,  all  on  journeys  which  were 
concerned  with  the  salvation  of  souls,  all  anticipating  the  com- 
ing of  the  Celestial  Bridegroom.  They  had  not  walked  on  a 
smooth  road  comfortably  as  did  Grandfather  and  Amos,  but 
with  sandaled,  stumbling  feet  in  narrow  paths,  from  which  they 
stepped  to  let  pass  a  single  Indian  warrior  or  perchance  a  horde 
going  noisily  to  Lancaster  with  squaws  and  papooses,  worn 
old  horses  and  dirty  impedimenta,  to  exchange,  for  a  few  hun- 
dred pounds,  mountains  and  valleys,  great  rivers  and  dense 
forests. 

Grandfather  walked  silently,  his  head  bowed,  and  Amos,  step- 
ping behind  him  at  the  approach  of  a  team,  kept  that  position, 
his  head  bent  like  the  old  man's. 

The  beauty  of  the  evening  weaned  Grandfather  for  a  little 
while  from  his  anxiety.  The  wheat  was  gathered  and  in  the 
barns,  the  corn  was  taller  than  his  head.  Over  everything 
streamed  a  golden  light  like  the  imagined  light  from  the  por- 
tals of  the  heavenly  city.  He  had  often  fancied  himself  laying 
down  his  earthly  burdens  on  such  an  evening,  and  he  had  long 
desired  to  go.  He  was  desperately  tired  of  life  with  its  complica- 
tions and  unaccountable  contradictions.  For  an  instant  he  won- 
dered whether  any  future  could  be  better  than  one  of  entire 


ELLEN  LEVIS  55 

rest  and  blankness  of  mind,  of  such  sleep  as  visited  the  very 
weary  —  heavy  and  uninterrupted  by  dreams. 

Then,  with  horror,  he  drove  away  such  speculations.  Was  he 
to  lose  in  a  moment's  doubting  in  his  old  age  that  heaven  which, 
he  had  desired  from  his  youth?  Moreover,  the  most  important 
duty  of  his  life  still  lay  before  him,  the  strengthening  of  the 
young  in  the  faith  so  that  the  truth  should  not  be  left  with- 
out witnesses.  There  was  Amos  of  whose  devotion  he  was  sure, 
but  the  life  of  a  single  man  was  a  slender  barrier  to  set  up  be- 
fore the  waves  of  indifference  and  disbelief  which  were  engulf- 
ing the  world.  If  he  could  not  count  upon  his  grandchildren, 
there  was  no  one  left.  He  gauged  with  a  keen  eye  the  quality 
of  the  rest  of  his  flock.  Feeling  suddenly  the  need  of  an  assur- 
ance from  his  solitary  disciple,  he  called  Amos,  who  stepped  to 
his  side,  pleased  to  obey  promptly. 

"Amos,  it  will  not  be  long  till  I  am  gone." 

"Don't  say  that,  Uncle!" 

"It  is  so  in  the  nature  of  things  and  I  would  not  have  it  other- 
wise. I  intend  to  leave  you  so  that  you  will  need  to  feel  no 
anxiety  about  your  daily  bread.  What  else  I  have  will  go  to  my 
grandchildren  under  certain  conditions  and  some  also  to  the  fund 
to  help  the  repairs.  It  is  a  heavy  responsibility  you  have  on  you, 
but  our  founder  said  that  wherever  there  is  a  man  who  has  a 
receptive  mind  there  will  the  Spirit  enter  in." 

Amos's  golden  head  bent  humbly. 

"I  have  no  ambition  to  be  prominent,  Uncle.  I  wish  there  was 
some  one  else." 

"There  is  no  one  else.  Besides,  you  have  been  trained;  there  is 
no  one  but  you  to  decipher  the  old  writings.  If  anything  should 
happen  to  me  suddenly,  it  will  be  your  duty  to  look  after  these 
children.  It  is  my  firm  belief  that  Matthew  is  ours  without  any 
question,  but  it  is  different  with  little  Ellen.  You  have  her  in 
school;  everything  will  rest  w^ith  you." 

Amos's  delicate  skin  showed  a  bright  color  even  in  the  gather- 
ing twilight.  He  had  begun  to  believe  that  he  had  unsuitable 
thoughts  about  Ellen,  that  he  had  noted  with  unseemly  keen- 
ness the  changes  in  her  youthful  figure.  It  would  be  sad  if  at 
last  temptation  should  come  to  him  in  the  form  of  sweet  little 
Ellen,  his  pupil!  He  believed  that  thus  the  devil  answered  his 


56  ELLEN  LEVIS 

desire  to  remain  celibate.  Before  lie  had  formed  this  inten- 
tion, he  had  not  been  troubled.  He  did  not  quite  hold  with 
St.  Chrysostom  that  a  woman  was  a  wicked  work  of  nature  cov- 
ered with  a  shining  varnish,  but  he  did  believe  that  she  was  a 
serious  obstacle  to  the  spiritual  life. 

There  was  a  light  in  Dr.  Levis's  office  where  he  sat  reading. 
Ellen  had  gone  with  Mrs.  Sassaman  to  her  church,  and  to  their 
surprise  Matthew  had  brought  round  the  double  carriage  and 
had  taken  the  driver's  seat. 

Levis  called  ''Come  in,"  ^^dthout  laying  down  his  book. 
When  he  saw  his  guests,  he  sprang  up  and  pushed  out  two 
chairs.  Now  that  Ellen  was  studying  and  Matthew  had  gone 
to  the  Lutheran  church,  he  felt  a  little  pity  for  Grandfather 
Milliausen. 

*'Sit  down,"  he  invited.  "This  is  a  very  pleasant  evening." 

The  circumstances  of  his  visit  to  the  Kloster  were  now  reversed 
—  it  was  Grandfather  who  had  no  desire  to  discuss  the  char- 
acter of  the  weather,  and  to  his  son-in-law's  remark  he  made 
no  reply.  Levis  looked  at  him  critically.  He  must  be  consider- 
ably over  seventy,  but  he  might  live  to  be  a  hundred. 

Then  Levis  looked  at  Amos  whose  beauty  though  unpleasant 
was  extraordinary  —  what  a  sensation  he  would  create  among 
artists !  —  he  might  even,  with  his  aureole  and  his  silky  beard, 
produce  a  sensation  upon  a  city  street.  Levis  wondered  with 
amusement  what  Amos  would  say  to  a  suggestion  that  he 
allow  his  body  to  be  made  a  delight  to  the  eye  for  centuries, 
hke  that  of  a  certain  youthful  model  of  St.  John. 

Grandfather  clasped  both  hands  over  the  head  of  his  stick 
and  leaned  forward.  His  keen  eyes  fell  upon  the  book  which  Levis 
was  reading  —  he  knew  enough  of  books  to  be  certain  that  this 
was  no  religious  work. 

"Edward,  I  have  come  to  speak  again  about  the  children  for 
whom  I  am  accountable.  I  did  n't  believe  you  when  you  said 
they  should  n't  come  to  meeting.  It  seemed  that  you  could  not 
be  guilty  of  such  short-sightedness  and  wickedness." 

"  I  meant  exactly  what  I  said  —  that  they  should  go  no  longer 
to  the  meeting  of  the  Seventh-Day  Baptists.  This  evening  they 
have  gone  with  the  housekeeper  to  the  Lutheran  church." 

"Not  Matthew!" 


ELLEN  LEVIS  57 

"Yes,  Matthew.  He  went  of  his  own  accord.  I  hope  they'll 
go  to  other  churches,  all  the  churches.  Then  they  '11  reahze  that 
much  that  you  teach  is  taught  elsewhere,  and  that  will  be  a 
step  gained." 

"The  Lutherans  are  worldly  and  they  don't  beheve  in  trine 
immersion!"  Grandfather's  voice  thundered. 

"What  do  you  suppose  the  Lutherans  would  say  about 
you?    It's  only  fair  that  the  children  should  hear  both." 

"That  is  n't  the  way  to  train  children.  They  should  be  taught, 
line  upon  line,  precept  upon  precept,  so  that  truth  is  fixed  in 
their  minds  firmly." 

"You've  had  your  chance  to  fix  it  firmly." 

"I'd  like  to  see  them,"  said  Grandfather.  If  there  had  been 
the  slightest  break  in  his  voice,  if  his  tone  had  expressed  a  hun- 
dredth part  of  the  misery  within  him,  Levis  would  have  replied 
more  gently.  But  Levis  thought  of  him  only  as  a  bigoted,  hard 
old  man. 

"You  may  come  here  and  see  them  at  any  time." 

"It  is  n't  suitable  that  I  should  come  to  see  my  grandchildren 
when  they  are  able  to  come  to  see  me." 

"I'll  send  for  you.  I'll  drive  down  and  get  you  myself  when 
you  want  to  come.  But  the  children  can't  go  to  meeting,  I  won't 
allow  it.  The  other  day  I  passed  the  door  of  the  Saal  and  it  was 
open  and  I  went  in.  It  is  incredible  that  you  can  hold  serv^ices 
there.  It  ought  to  be  torn  down;  it's  like  a  cave  for  dampness.  I 
would  as  soon  bury  Ellen  and  Matthew  as  let  them  continue 
under  the  influence  of  that  place.  It's  a  crime  to  stand  still 
when  the  thought  of  the  whole  world  is  changing." 

"We've  one  business  in  life,  to  serve  God  and  obey  Him. 
We're  not  to  follow  changing  winds." 

Levis  moved  impatiently. 

"Your  lot  may  have  been  cast  in  those  dim,  musty,  horrible 
places.  The  lot  of  my  boy  and  girl  is  cast  in  the  world  where 
they  've  got  to  be  better  fortified  than  your  doctrine  would  fortify 
them.  They've  got  to  stand  on  their  own  feet  and  think  for 
themselves.  They  know  right  and  wrong;  the  rest  they'll  have 
to  work  out." 

Grandfather  leaned  forward,  scorn  upon  his  trembling  lips. 

"What  have  you  worked  out.^  The  doctrine  of  the  Trinity? 


58  ELLEN  LEVIS 

Or  trine  immersion?  Or  salvation  by  faith?  Any  of  these  doc- 
trines?" 

*'None  of  them,"  answered  Levis  lightly.  '*Not  a  single  one 
of  them." 

"You  will  be  eternally  destroyed,"  warned  Grandfather,  truly 
appalled. 

"Well,"  said  Levis  — then  he  felt  ashamed.  There  was  no  use 
in  further  horrifying  an  old  man  of  whom  he  had  so  obviously 
the  upper  hand.  "You  and  I  shouldn't  discuss  this  subject. 
Each  of  us  knows  what  the  other  thinks  and  there 's  no  likelihood 
of  either  of  us  changing."  He  tried  to  recall  some  pleasant 
subject  upon  which  he  and  his  father-in-law  could  agree.  Grand- 
father was  not  interested  in  politics,  and  still  less  in  several  won- 
derful medical  discoveries  which  Levis  read  about  with  eyes 
agleam  like  those  of  a  traveler  at  sight  of  a  new  continent.  Grand- 
father held  the  practice  of  medicine  to  be  useless  idling. 

"  We  've  had  a  good  harvest,"  said  Levis,  at  last. 

Grandfather  stood  upright.  His  beard  was  blown  to  one  side 
by  a  sudden  breeze  which  made  the  flame  of  the  lamp  waver. 

"Edward,  I  ask  you  once  more  for  the  souls  of  these  chil- 
dren ! " 

"Nonsense,"  answered  Levis.  "Their  souls  aren't  mine!  If 
you're  going  home,  you'd  better  let  me  drive  you  down." 

Grandfather  made  a  rejecting  gesture  and  walked  toward  the 
door.  Then  he  saw  that  Amos  had  not  risen,  but  sat,  turned  in 
his  chair,  looking  at  a  little  table  by  the  window  upon  which 
lay  several  schoolbooks,  a  tablet,  and  two  pencils.  There  was 
also  a  glass  of  water  with  a  few  rosebuds  in  it.  A  sharp  suspicion 
shot  through  Amos's  heart.  Was  Ellen  studying  in  advance  of 
her  class?  Then  she  would  not  come  back!  Burning  red  dyed 
his  cheeks;  he  felt  that  Grandfather  and  Levis  must  both  be 
able  to  read  in  his  heart  the  emotions  which  boiled  and  raged 
there,  putting  his  salvation  in  jeopardy. 

"Is  Ellen  studying  in  summer?"  he  asked  tremulously. 
"These  look  like  her  books." 

"Yes,"  answered  Levis.  "You've  given  her  a  good  founda- 
tion, Amos,  and  she  has  a  good  mind.  But  she  must  move  more 
rapidly,  or  she'll  get  into  lazy  habits." 

"I  could  give  her  extra  work,"  offered  Amos,  trembling. 


ELLEN  LEVIS  59 

"It  is  n't  fair  to  ask  you  to  do  that.  I'll  teach  her  myself  till 
she  goes  away." 

"Is  she  going  away?"  asked  Amos. 

"She'll  have  to  go  to  finish  her  education." 

"She'll  not  need  education  beyond  what  she  can  get  in 
school,"  said  Grandfather.  Here  was  a  new  and  greater  danger! 

"Oh,  yes,  she  will!" 

"What  do  you  mean  to  make  of  Ellen .^" 

Until  this  moment  her  father  had  had  no  definite  plans  about 
what  he  should  do  with  Ellen  once  her  mind  was  trained.  Now 
he  expressed  a  sudden  alluring  thought.  She  had  shown  certain 
aptitudes;  even  before  his  sentence  was  finished  it  seemed  to 
him  that  the  idea  had  long  been  forming. 

"I  may  make  a  doctor  of  Ellen." 

At  that  the  ticking  of  the  old  clock  in  the  corner  could  be 
plainly  heard.  Grandfather  was  amazed  and  frightened;  Amos 
felt  actually  dizzy  as  though  the  world  were  whirling. 

"Of  Ellen!''  they  said  together. 

Levis  began  to  elaborate  the  idea. 

"I  wish  Ellen  to  earn  her  own  living.  Dependence  upon  any 
one  after  one  is  grown  is  bad.  I  wish  her  to  be  perfectly  independ- 
ent even  of  the  man  she  marries,  to  be  able  to  say  to  him  if  neces- 
sary, *I  don't  need  you.'  She  must  have  a  profession,  and  it's 
natural  that  she  has  inherited  some  aptitude  for  medicine.  I 
mean  to  give  her  every  opportunity.  I  'm  going  to  prepare  her  for 
college  as  rapidly  as  I  think  wise,  and  when  she  is  through  college 
she  is  to  go  to  a  medical  school  if  she  wishes." 

To  Grandfather  this  was  the  raving  of  a  madman. 

"You  would  turn  the  world  upside  down!"  he  cried. 

Levis  made  no  answer.  He  heard  the  carriage  at  the  door  and 
Ellen  and  Mrs.  Sassaman  coming  in.  He  wished  that  they  had  not 
returned  so  soon,  but  here  they  were.  He  hoped  that  his  visitors 
would  depart  before  Matthew  finished  his  work  at  the  barn. 

Ellen  ran  in,  her  cheeks  aglow.  When  she  saw  her  grandfather, 
she  hurried  forward. 

"Why,  Grandfather,  when  did  you  come.^" 

"A  little  while  ago."  There  was  a  quiver  under  his  long  beard. 

"And  Amos!  Amos,  I'm  studying  with  Father  and  I'm  not 
coming  back  to  school." 


60  ELLEN  LEVIS 

"So  I  hear,"  answered  Amos. 

After  this  no  one  spoke,  but  all  looked  at  Ellen  with  hunger  in 
their  eyes.  Standing  between  them,  she  felt  uncomfortable.  She 
loved  them  and  she  knew  that  they  did  not  feel  kindly  toward 
one  another.  A  week  ago  she  would  have  offered  to  sit  on  her 
grandfather's  knee,  or  she  would  have  taken  her  fine  collection  of 
correct  "examples"  to  show  her  teacher.  Now  she  moved  back- 
ward toward  her  father,  who  laid  his  hands  on  her  shoulders 
and  held  her  close  to  him. 

"I'm  studying  with  Father,"  said  she,  as  though  she  were  de- 
fending him.  "Some  day  I'm  going  to  be  an  honor  to  him." 

The  words  echoed  in  two  disturbed  hearts  until  the  gate  of  the 
Kloster  was  reached. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

MATTHEW  MAKES  HIS  CHOICE 

After  stabling  his  horses  Matthew  came  into  the  house.  One 
would  have  thought  that  any  lad  would  have  found  the  prospect 
of  Ellen  on  one  side  of  Dr.  Levis's  desk  and  the  doctor  on  the 
other  more  attractive  than  the  furniture  of  a  bedroom.  But 
Matthew  started  up  the  stairs. 

"Matthew!"  called  his  father. 

Matthew  returned  obediently  to  the  doorway.  He  was  fast 
approaching  his  father's  height  and  promised  to  be  as  tall  as 
Grandfather  Milhausen. 

*' Won't  you  join  us?" 

Matthew  said  he  thought  not;  he  believed  that  he  would  go  to 
bed. 

*'I  hate  going  to  bed,"  remarked  Ellen.  Between  her  and 
Matthew  matters  were  not  yet  straightened  out,  but  she  was 
hopeful  of  a  gentle  answer. 

"You  hate  many  things  that  are  good  and  right." 

Ellen's  brown  eyes  filled. 

"  Now,  Matthew,  it  is  n't  necessary  to  be  as  serious  as  all  that ! " 
said  Levis.  "  Come  and  sit  down." 

"I  think  I'U  go  to  bed." 

Levis  half  rose,  impelled  to  cross  the  room  and  lay  an  affection- 
ate, persuasive  hand  on  the  boy.  But  he  thought  better  of  it  and 
his  face  colored  with  relief  at  an  escape  from  a  possible  rebuff. 
Alas,  he  knew  beforehand  all  that  Matthew  was  likely  to  do;  he 
remembered  another  figure  with  well-set  head  and  gray  eyes 
that  had  often  regarded  him  unyieldingly  from  the  doorway. 

"Very  well,  my  son.  Good-night." 

TMien  he  had  gone,  Ellen  looked  at  her  father.  Levis  was  for 
the  moment  off  his  guard,  his  past  years  were  moving  before  him 
in  review.  She  said  nothing,  but  she  began  suddenly  to  feel  a 
deep  and  loyal  indignation. 

Matthew  climbed  to  his  room  slowly,  the  spark  of  regret  in  his 
heart  quenched  before  he  reached  the  upper  step.  He  sat  down  at 


62  ELLEN  LEVIS 

his  window  and  looked  out  into  the  moonhght.  He  said  nothing 
aloud,  but  what  he  said  in  his  heart  was  this : 

"The  Lutheran  preacher  prided  himself  on  his  learning  with 
his  careful  pronunciation  and  his  long,  long  words.  The  girls 
stood  gayly  dressed  in  the  choir  for  the  young  men  to  look  at, 
and  each  tried  to  scream  louder  than  the  others.  I  would  not 
look  at  one  of  them.  Everything  was  too  rich  and  too  comforta- 
ble. Ellen's  eyes  were  like  bright,  shining  cat's  eyes.  It  was  im- 
modest to  stare  the  way  Ellen  did." 

His  gaze  sought  the  moonlit  distance  as  though  he  would 
pierce  it  through.  As  clearly  as  though  they  were  before  him  he 
saw  the  old  buildings,  the  low  ceiling,  the  worshipers  with  down- 
cast eyes.  He  drew  a  deep  breath  of  earth-scented  air.  The 
field  beside  the  house  had  been  ploughed,  and  in  the  dewy 
night  it  exhaled  a  heavy  odor,  full  of  decay  yet  full  of  promise. 
He  seemed  to  see  the  farmer,  his  hands  on  the  plough;  he  saw 
the  forward  pull  of  the  shoulders  of  the  heavy  bays,  the  warm 
dark  earth  curving  from  the  ploughshare.  It  was  all  part  of  the 
life  for  which  he  longed,  for  which  he  was  made. 

Then  he  looked  back  into  the  room.  Dimly  on  his  table  he  saw 
a  pile  of  books,  his  hateful  books.  He  was  tempted  to  destroy 
them,  but  even  stubborn  Matthew  had  still  a  measure  of  com- 
mon sense.  He  would  have  to  obey  his  father  and  go  av/ay,  but 
he  would  come  back.  He  would  have  another  month  at  home, 
then  he  would  have  to  be  at  the  University  before  the  open- 
ing to  take  examinations.  He  had  no  expectation  of  failure  and 
he  was  above  deliberate  effort  to  fail.  He  was  determined  to  put 
himself  thoroughly  to  whatever  test  the  city  might  offer,  a 
Daniel  descending  willingly  into  the  fiery  furnace. 

From  summer  day  to  summer  day,  Ellen  studied.  It  was  with 
difficulty  that  Levis  restrained  himself  from  giving  her  longer 
lessons.  When  the  cooler  weather  came,  then  she  should  have 
full  hours.  Last  year's  studies  were  reviewed  and  the  equivalent 
of  a  half-year  under  Amos  accomplished  before  September. 
Then,  when  Matthew,  sullen-eyed  and  silent,  had  been  taken  to 
Philadelphia  by  his  father,  Ellen  began  to  work  in  earnest. 

She  had  by  this  time  acquired  many  ideas  that  were  new.  The 
gods  of  her  little  girlhood,  Grandfather  and  Amos,  had  been  en- 
tirely displaced  and  there  was  but  one  creature  worthy  of  wor- 


ELLEN  LEVIS  63 

ship.  It  was  not  Levis's  positive  statements,  delivered  as  though 
there  were  no  disputing  them,  which  won  Ellen;  it  was  his  hands 
on  her  shoulders  and  the  throb  of  his  beating  heart;  it  was  the 
way  he  had  looked  at  Matthew  when  Matthew  had  refused  to 
come  and  sit  with  them.  Two  months  ago  he  had  been  like  most 
fathers,  a  tall,  distant,  directing  human  being;  now  he  was  a 
creature  not  only  to  be  obeyed,  but  to  be  made  much  of,  even 
to  be  protected  and  defended.  He  would  have  been  touched  and 
amused  to  know  what  Ellen  thought  of  him. 

He  left  Matthew  in  a  small  room  at  the  University  and  came 
away,  still  believing  that  he  would  "come  out  right,"  that  is,  he 
would  see  how  foolish  he  had  been.  He  would  make  friends,  he 
would  learn  to  be  like  other  lads,  he  would  forget  the  bigotry  and 
narrowness  to  which  he  had  committed  himself.  Matthew  was 
his  own  son,  and  he,  Heaven  knows,  had  never  been  bigoted  or 
narrow. 

After  visiting  the  theater  and  watching  a  few  skillful  operations, 
he  went  home.  He  might  have  seen,  had  he  chosen  to  cross  the 
street  to  the  Ophthalmic  Hospital,  Stephen  Lanfair,  who  was 
there  one  day  in  the  week,  but  he  did  not  choose.  He  still  loved 
him,  but  he  did  not  care  to  search  him  out.  He  was  astonished  to 
find  that  the  confusion  of  the  city  wearied  and,  still  worse,  wor- 
ried him. 

He  found  Ellen  waiting  for  him  in  the  doorway  and  decided  as 
he  crossed  the  porch  that  she  was  going  to  be  a  pretty  girl.  Still 
there  was  no  trace  of  her  mother  about  her,  and  little  of  him  — 
perhaps  from  his  own  unknown  mother  she  had  inherited  her 
thick  curls  and  her  black  eyes. 

"I  have  learned  what  you  gave  me  to  learn,"  she  boasted. 
"Does  Matthew  like  Philadelphia?" 

"I  think  he  will." 

"You  are  to  go  to  Umbesheidens'  and  to  Heilmans'  right 
away." 

"Has  anything  important  happened.^" 

"Nothing  at  all." 

Then  Ellen  felt  a  little  uncomfortable.  Something  had  hap- 
pened, but  it  was  too  small  a  thing  to  tell.  She  had  met  Amos  one 
afternoon  in  the  woodland.  He  had  been  required  by  a  new  school 
law  to  give  a  small  amount  of  instruction  in  botany  and  had 


64  ELLEN  LEVIS 

come  to  find  oak  leaves.  He  was  sitting  on  the  stump  which  was 
her  special  seat  and,  glad  to  see  him  and  ready  to  talk,  she  sat 
down  at  once  on  the  fallen  tree  near  by. 

"How  is  school?" 

Amos  did  not  answer.  His  curious  passion  seemed  suddenly 
entirely  reasonable.  Ellen's  hair  had  gone  up,  her  dresses  down. 

"It's  pretty  much  like  always,"  said  he  at  last.  "But  you're 
not  there."  Then  he  added  hastily,  "And  Matthew  is  not  there." 

"Are  the  boys  still  so  dumb?" 

Amos  hesitated.  The  boys  were  very  stupid,  but  it  was  against 
his  code  to  speak  in  such  fashion  of  any  one. 

"They  do  their  best." 

"And  Millie?  How  does  she  get  her  lessons?" 

"She  is  no  longer  there.  Oh,  Ellen,  I  wish  you  would  come 
back!" 

"But  I'm  almost  through  what  you  teach,"  said  Ellen.  "I 
could  n't  stay  long  if  I  did  come.  And  I  could  n't  come,  anyway. 
Two  years  from  now  I'm  going  to  college." 

"Oh,  Ellen,  I  hope  you'll  be  a  good  girl!" 

Ellen  stirred  uncomfortably  at  the  solemnity  in  Amos's  ex- 
pression. 

"I  mean  to!" 

"Don't  forget  v/hat  you  have  learned!" 

"I  won't.  Father  says  you  taught  me  very  well." 

"I  mean  you're  not  to  forget  other  things  —  the  true  Gospel 
and  the  health  of  your  soul." 

"I  will  remember  all  that,"  said  Ellen  quickly,  frightened  by 
this  sudden  allusion  to  her  soul. 

"And  don't  forget  me,  and  that  I'm  praying  for  you!" 

"1  won't,"  promised  Ellen.  "Indeed,  I  won't."  Nervously  she 
rose  from  her  place  on  the  old  log.  It  was  late  afternoon  and  the 
shadows  suddenly  deepened.  She  held  out  her  hand.  The  heart 
which  stirred  quickly  at  another's  need  felt  vaguely  Amos's 
misery.  "I  must  go  back.  I  — "  she  was  still  a  child  until  she  had 
uttered  her  childish  sentence — "I'll  kiss  you  if  you  wish, 
Amos!" 

Then  Amos  knew  that  the  devil  was  after  him  indeed.  But  he 
bent  and  laid  his  bearded  lips  to  the  smooth  cheek.  He  said 
nothing,  and  in  a  moment  she  was  gone,  flushed  and  frightened. 


ELLEN  LEVIS  65 

"Oh,  how  silly!"  said  she  to  herself.  She  felt  again  the  light 
warm  touch  upon  her  cheek.  "How  dreadful  to  have  said  such  a 
thing!" 

It  was  of  course  impossible  to  describe  this  foolishness  to  her 
father. 

Grandfather  thought  hourly  of  Matthew.  Each  day  he  became 
more  painfully  aware  that  ]\Iatthew  was  young  and  that  tempta- 
tions were  many.  He  saw  him  at  the  end  of  the  week  surrounded 
by  all  the  enticements  of  a  lurid  Babylon.  Members  of  the 
church,  astonished  at  the  course  pursued  by  Dr.  Levis  and  per- 
mitted —  at  least  they  thought  it  was  permitted  —  by  Grand- 
father, poured  into  his  ears  descriptions  of  orgies  indulged  in  by 
college  students  in  which  wine,  women,  and  song  furnished  a 
gay  entertainment.  Indeed,  according  to  the  stories  heard  by 
Brother  Konig,  wine,  women,  and  song  were  as  necessary  to 
college  students  as  food  and  sleep.  Church-going  was  unknown 
without  compulsion,  and  then  all  were  required  to  attend  a 
single  irreligious,  inconsistent  service  where  one  Sunday  Jews 
preached  to  Gentiles  and  the  next  Gentiles  to  Jews.  Brother 
Konig,  so  keen  when  the  trade  of  a  horse  was  in  question,  had 
heard  that  on  certain  Sundays  even  Catholics  set  up  their  altars 
and  tried  to  proselyte.  Matthew,  every  one  believed,  had  spirit- 
ual strength  unusual  in  a  young  man,  but  he  was,  in  the  local 
idiom,  not  that  strong. 

It  was  reported  also  that  all  evil  practices  reached  their  height 
in  the  Medical  School  where  Matthew,  after  an  incredibly  long 
stay  elsewhere,  would  eventually  spend  four  years.  Brother 
K5nig  could  invent  little  beyond  that  which  he  had  already  im- 
parted, but  he  stated  plainly  that  there  were  other  things,  of 
which  he  would  not  tell. 

From  Matthew  directly  Grandfather  heard  nothing.  He  WTote 
to  him,  but  his  vaguely  addressed  envelope  did  not  reach  its 
destination.  Meanwhile  he  came  to  his  assistance  in  another  way. 
The  evenings  had  grown  cool  and  he  and  Amos  sat  \\ithin  doors, 
Grandfather  in  meditation,  Amos  studying  a  Latin  manuscript 
which  he  had  found  in  a  room  high  under  the  eaves  of  Saron. 
It  was  a  discourse  on  "The  Mystic  Dove,"  and  was  one  of  the 
few  documents  which  had  escaped  prying  antiquarians.  The 
quality  of  the  Latin  was  poor,  but  Amos  was  puzzling  it  out, 


66  ELLEN  LEVIS 

believing  that  it  had  been  written  by  Brother  Jabez,  one  of  the 
most  interesting  and  certainly  the  most  learned  of  the  sect,  and 
that  it  contained  valuable  devotional  material.  Sometimes  he 
read  a  line  to  Grandfather,  and  they  discussed  it  wisely.  Alien 
and  worldly  historians  had  described  the  Kloster,  but  none 
had  written  with  understanding  and  sympathy,  and  sometimes 
Amos  dreamed  of  undertaking  the  task. 

Grandfather's  plan  for  the  sustaining  of  Matthew  consisted  in 
the  offering  of  prayers  each  evening  at  the  hour  of  nine,  when, 
for  some  reason,  he  fancied  temptations  to  be  at  their  height. 
During  October  the  two  petitioners  made  their  candle-lit  way 
into  the  dim  and  musty  Saal  and  there  knelt  down  before  the  old 
benches,  and  when  the  Saal  grew  tomblike  in  the  cold  Novem- 
ber evenings,  they  offered  their  oblations  both  for  Matthew  and 
Ellen  in  the  kitchen,  which  was  filled  with  the  sound  of  Grand- 
father's sonorous  voice. 

Amos  also,  fresh  from  the  work  of  the  devout  and  mystic 
Brother  Jabez,  prayed  for  Matthew's  well-being,  reproaching 
himself  with  the  neophyte's  humility  for  the  pleasure  which  he 
took  in  a  neatly  rounded  petition.  He  tried  to  pray  for  Ellen, 
but  when  he  did  so  he  seemed  to  feel  her  kiss. 

November  waned,  and  still  each  evening  the  two  men  besought 
the  Creator  of  the  world  to  watch  over  their  lamb.  Grandfather 
prayed  more  fervently  and  eloquently,  with  the  desperate  ear- 
nestness of  a  Jacob  who  feels  the  angel  slipping  from  him. 

*'I  have  had  no  sign  of  an  answer,"  said  he  despairingly.  "We 
must  pray  more." 

The  next  evening  they  prayed  for  an  hour.  Grandfather's 
heavy  heart  found  relief,  and  Amos  on  his  knees  with  eyes  up- 
lifted expected  some  visible  pillar  of  fire  or  of  cloud. 

"We  shall  hear  from  him,"  said  Grandfather  with  assurance. 

The  last  evening  of  November  was  stormy.  A  late  and  lovely 
autumn  had  ended  yesterday  with  a  fiery  sunset  and  a  roaring 
wind,  and  to-day  wind  and  rain  and  sleet  made  the  outer  world 
almost  intolerable.  The  blast  penetrating  between  the  cracks  of 
the  cottage  blew  the  fire  to  a  furious  blaze  which,  roaring  up  the 
chimney,  gave  little  heat.  The  gale  stirred  the  end  of  Grand- 
father's beard  as  he  knelt  by  his  chair,  and  fanned  Amos's 
cheek.  There  were  the  dark  shadows,  the  silvery  white  of  Grand- 


ELLEN  LEVIS  67 

father's  beard,  the  golden  light  on  the  brass  bowl  of  the  old 
lamp,  and  all  about  the  sound  and  fury  of  the  storm,  which 
seemed  to  threaten  the  destruction  of  the  cottage. 

Grandfather  had  worked  himself  into  an  ecstasy  of  expecta- 
tion and  it  seemed  to  him  certain  that  a  divine  communication 
was  imminent.  Amos  opened  his  eyes  to  look  at  him  and  did  not 
close  them,  so  wonderful  did  he  seem.  The  wind  distressed  him 
but  the  sight  of  the  old  man  at  prayer  calmed  him. 

"O  Lord,  we  pray  Thee  for  some  sign  that  we  are  heard.  We 
ask  Thee  for  Thy  blessing  upon  one  whom  we  love.  Thou  knov/- 
est  the  cruel  snares  set  for  the  feet  of  the  young;  keep  his  feet 
from  going  in  those  paths.  Forgive  those  who  have  tried  to  set 
his  way  therein.  Bring  him  safely  home.  We  wait,  O  Lord!" 

The  voice  grew  shrill;  the  key  upon  which  it  ended  was  high, 
as  though  the  petitioner  did  indeed  wait.  There  was  suddenly  a 
sound  outside  that  was  different  from  the  wind,  a  sharp  closing  of 
the  gate  behind  a  visitor  in  haste.  Before  Grandfather  and  Amos 
could  rise  from  their  knees,  the  door  opened,  and,  looking  up, 
they  saw  not  a  mysterious  visitor,  still  less  Matthew,  whom  his 
grandfather  thought  of  first  of  all,  but  Levis,  pale  and  drenched 
with  rain. 

Levis  looked  away;  he  did  not  like  to  see  men  in  the  act  of  bar- 
ing their  souls  any  more  than  he  liked  to  bare  his  own. 

"I  don't  wish  to  interrupt." 

"There  is  no  interruption.  Sit  down,  Edward." 

Levis  did  not  respond  to  the  invitation. 

"Do  you  know  anything  of  Matthew.^" 

Amazement  answered  him. 

"Nothing,"  said  Grandfather  at  last.  "1  haven't  seen  him 
since  long  before  he  was  sent  away.  What  is  the  matter  with 
Matthew?" 

"He  has  left  school." 

Grandfather  waited  for  further  information.  In  his  heart  he 
said,  "Thank  God!" 

"He  hasn't  simply  disappeared;  he  has  deliberately  run 
away,  after  notifying  the  registrar  that  he  was  going.  He  was 
forbidden  to  go,  but  he  went  nevertheless." 

"I  know  nothing  whatever  about  him." 

"Nor  I,"  said  Amos. 


68  ELLEN  LEVIS 

"It  was  three  days  ago." 

"I've  been  praying  that  he  would  resist  temptation/'  said 
Grandfather  boldly.  "Perhaps  this  is  the  answer." 

"I'm  not  concerned  about  temptations,"  answered  Levis  im- 
patiently. "Matthew  is  no  fool.  I'm  concerned  for  his  health. 
Where  is  he?" 

Then  Levis  felt  the  door  against  which  he  stood  move  slightly 
and  turned  with  tigerish  swiftness  and  threw  it  open.  In  came 
the  wind  and  sleet,  and  in  came  also  Matthew,  rain-soaked, 
bedraggled,  with  bent  head.  He  pressed  hard  against  the  door 
until  it  was  closed  and  then  stood  panting  with  bright,  sullen 
eyes. 

Le\^is  spoke  first. 

"How  long  have  you  been  out  in  this  storm.?'* 

"Only  a  little  while.  I  walked  yesterday  and  the  day  before, 
but  to-day  I  got  a  long  ride  in  a  market  wagon." 

"Have  you  any  clothes  here  that  he  can  put  on?"  This  in  a 
physician's  sharp  tone  to  Amos. 

Amos  beckoned  Matthew  to  the  other  room. 

"When  did  you  eat?"  asked  Levis. 

"At  supper  time,"  said  Matthew  and  shut  the  door. 

Levis  sat  down  by  the  table.  "Have  you  any  stimulant  in  the 
house?" 

"God  in  Heaven,  Edward,  now  that  he  is  here  and  safe, 
would  you  ruin  him  deliberately?  Are  n't  you  satisfied?'* 

"Have  you  anything  that  he  can  take  hot?" 

Grandfather  rose  and  opened  a  cupboard  door,  his  hands 
trembling. 

"I  will  make  durch-wax  tea." 

"Make  it  then,  or  let  your  acolyte  make  it."  In  the  midst  of 
his  rage  Levis  was  pleased  with  having  found  exactly  the  right 
word. 

"It's  very  bitter  tea,"  said  the  old  man  as  he  poured  hot 
water  upon  the  dried  leaves. 

"The  bitterer  the  better,"  said  Levis  grimly. 

When  Matthew  appeared  from  the  inner  room,  there  came 
into  his  father's  white  face  the  expression  of  amazed  and  in- 
tolerable pain  which  Ellen  had  once  seen.  Matthew  was  un- 
shaven ;  the  dark  shade  on  his  cheek  was  not  put  there  by  the  soil 


ELLEN  LEVIS  69 

of  travel,  it  was  a  curling  beard,  which,  above  Amos's  black 
suit,  had  a  significance  not  to  be  ignored.  For  a  single  second 
his  father  thought  that  this  could  not  be  Matthew,  it  was  Amos. 
He  laid  his  hand  against  his  side  as  though  his  heart  ached 
sensibly.  ' 

** Are  you  tired?"  he  asked. 

"Not  very." 

*'Then  I  think  we'd  better  settle  this  matter  at  once.  Since 
you  've  chosen  to  come  here  and  to  pass  your  father's  gate,  we  '11 
discuss  it  here  and  for  the  last  time.  Why  did  you  leave 
school.^" 

"I  could  n't  see  any  use  in  it." 

"Do  you  expect  to  be  a  physician  without  going  to  school?" 

"I  don't  want  to  be  a  physician.  I  have  no  interest  in  it.  I 
want  to  farm."  Matthew  burst  into  tears. 

Levis  met  tears  without  a  change  of  expression. 

"Suppose  you  do  want  to  farm,  there's  no  reason  why  you 
should  n't  go  to  school.  There  are  new  methods  of  farming  which 
you  could  learn.  You  could  at  least  learn  how  to  live.  Do  you 
want  to  remain  an  ignoramus?" 

"I'm  not  an  ignoramus.  And  I  don't  want  to  take  your 
money." 

Levis  made  no  answer. 

"Because  I'm  going  to  be  a  Seventh-Day  Baptist.  I'm  under 
conviction.  It  would  n't  make  any  difference  how  long  I  went 
to  school,  the  result  would  be  the  same.  I  can't  have  peace 
unless  I  come  out  openly." 

Now  it  was  the  heart  of  Grandfather  which  threatened  to 
stop  beating.  Did  God  hear  the  prayers  of  the  faithful,  or  did 
He  not?  He  poured  into  a  cup  some  of  the  steaming  brew. 

Levis  folded  his  arms  and  settled  himself  more  closely  against 
the  back  of  the  straight  pine  chair. 

"Drink  your  tea,"  he  commanded.  "Then  I  have  something 
to  say  to  you." 

Matthew  swallowed  the  scalding  fluid.  It  warmed  him,  put 
heart  in  him,  like  a  sacramental  wine.  The  storm  was  almost 
over;  the  roar  in  the  chimney  had  ceased,  the  roar  outside  had 
almost  died  down;  it  seemed  as  though  the  stage  were  set  for 
Levis. 


70  ELLEN  LEVIS 

"I  don't  wish  to  be  interrupted,"  said  he.  "I'm  speaking  to 
my  son  and  you  are  perfectly  welcome  to  listen.  Afterwards  you 
shall  have  your  chance  if  he  wishes  to  hear  you." 

Levis  began  in  the  fifteenth  century. 

"The  Reformation  was  a  protest  against  superstition,  but 
only  against  the  more  gross  superstitions,  and  the  Protestant 
Church  retains  to-day  the  essential  superstitions  of  the  Roman 
Church.  The  idea  of  the  Son  of  the  Creator  of  the  universe  in 
human  form  is  a  fantastic  one,  now  fading  from  the  minds  of 
the  more  intelligent.  Matthew,  are  you  listening  to  me?" 

"Yes,"  said  Matthew  in  a  whisper. 

"The  idea  of  a  blood  atonement,  of  the  sacrifice  of  a  single  inno- 
cent being  for  the  sins  of  all  the  world,  is  monstrous,  a  develop- 
ment of  the  idea  that  the  crimes  of  men  could  be  laid  upon  the 
back  of  an  animal,  which,  driven  away,  took  them  with  him. 
To  these  ideas  the  Seventh-Day  Baptists  have  added  others  as 
fantastic  as  any  invented  in  the  history  of  the  queer  mind  of 
man.  I  could  just  as  easily  worship  the  bones  of  a  human  being 
as  I  could  believe  it  essential  to  have  my  feet  bathed  at  a  church 
service.  Your  denial  of  opportunities  is  as  ridiculous  as  that  of 
the  hermit  who  prefers  to  live  in  bodily  uncleanness.  You  live 
in  mental  sloth  and  blindness !  Your  founder  was  a  charlatan  of 
the  worst  sort  who  beguiled  women  away  from  their  husbands 
and  mothers  away  from  their  children,  to  live  in  fancied  holiness 
in  this  grim  place.  Generation  by  generation  his  followers  have 
grown  fewer  in  number.  In  Matthew's  generation  there  will  not 
be  half  a  dozen. 

"Now,  Matthew,  this  is  my  last  word.  You  may  return  to 
school  for  the  year  —  that  is  one  alternative.  Or  you  may  come 
home  and  live  like  a  normal  human  being  and  farm  if  you  wish 
and  without  further  education  if  you  insist,  under  the  condition 
that  you  don't  join  the  Seventh-Day  Baptists  or  attend  their 
meetings  until  you  are  twenty-one  years  old.  Or,  you  may  stay 
here,  allied  with  the  past,  letting  the  world  go  by,  alienated 
from  your  father  and  little  sister  who  have  a  right  to  your  society 
and  your  love. 

"You  must  choose  now,  Matthew.  I  can't  continue  to  hope 
for  years  to  come  that  you'll  be  an  honor  to  me  and  then  have 
you  fail  me.  You'll  have  to  make  up  your  mind." 


ELLEN  LEVIS  71 

It  seemed  to  Levis  that  he  had  been  talking  a  long  time.  He 
changed  his  position,  driving  his  hands  deep  into  his  pockets 
and  crossing  one  knee  over  the  other.  Seated  easily,  his  clenched 
fists  invisible,  he  had  the  appearance  of  a  man  too  firmly- 
grounded  in  his  philosophy  of  life  to  be  seriously  affected  by  any 
chance  which  might  befall.  Matthew  sat  with  bent  head;  Amos 
in  the  shadow  held  his  hand  across  his  lips.  Once  he  remem- 
bered a  cool,  soft  cheek.  Grandfather  seemed  to  have  shrunk 
within  himself;  his  eyes  were  half  closed,  his  lips  moved.  It 
was  evident  that  against  the  influence  of  Levis 's  eloquence  he 
was  opposing  all  his  supplicatory  powers.  He  looked  at  no  one; 
he  seemed  to  be  in  a  trance.  The  wind  began  to  blow  louder, 
whistling  round  the  corners.  The  silence  within  became  nerve- 
racking. 

"Well,  Matthew.^"  said  Levis,  sitting  suddenly  upright. 

Matthew  answered  without  raising  his  head. 

'*I'm  under  conviction.  It  would  be  wrong  for  me  to  waste 
my  time  studying  when  nothing  was  to  come  of  it." 

Levis  got  to  his  feet  quickly. 

"You  mean  you're  going  to  stay  here?" 

"Yes." 

Now  Grandfather  folded  his  arms  across  his  breast  and  bent 
his  head  almost  upon  them.  Did  God  hear  His  children,  or  did 
He  not.? 

Levis  lifted  his  hat  from  the  pine  table. 

"Matthew,  look  at  me!" 

Matthew  lifted  his  eyes.  For  an  instant,  with  torn  heart,  he 
longed  to  throw  himself  on  his  father's  breast.  But  his  Heavenly 
Father  was  more  dear.  He  dropped  his  eyes  once  more. 

"You've  entirely  made  up  your  mind.'^" 

"Yes,"  he  whispered. 

Levis  lingered  another  instant,  his  back  against  the  door. 

"Listen  to  me.  I  have  my  creed.  I  believe  that  no  man  can 
behave  foolishly  or  wi'ongly  without  having  it  somehow  re- 
turned to  him.  I  hope  that  this  hour  will  never  be  visited  upon 

you." 

Then  Levis  went  out  to  return  no  more.  He  stumbled  as  he 
crossed  the  step  and  then  straightened  up  in  the  face  of  the 
wind  which  blew  clear  and  strong  from  the  north.  He  went 


72  ELLEN  LEVIS 

through  the  gate  into  the  graveyard,  and  saw  the  full  moon, 
unveiled  with  mysterious  suddenness,  illuminating  the  white 
stones.  The  experience  through  which  he  had  passed,  the  stormy 
and  magnificent  night,  the  moonlight  making  so  purely  white 
the  tallest  stone  in  the  little  graveyard  —  all  would  have  moved 
and  racked  another  man.  But  he  had  the  power,  cultivated 
through  long  years  in  uncongenial  surroundings,  of  detaching 
himself  from  the  present.  He  began  to  repeat  a  passage  of  de- 
scription of  which  he  was  fond  and  which  brought  before  his 
eyes  a  foreign  landscape  which  he  had  never  seen,  but  of  which 
he  often  dreamed.  When  it  was  finished  he  repeated  another  pas- 
sage and  yet  another,  and  so  came  at  last  to  his  own  door. 

The  light  burned  dimly,  but  a  dimmer  light  would  have  re- 
vealed to  his  seeking  eyes  that  for  which  they  looked.  Under  a 
gay  pieced  afghan  lay  Ellen,  a  book  in  her  arms.  Beside  her  her 
father  drew  up  a  chair  and  there  sat  down,  scrutinizing  each 
childish  lineament,  each  crisp  curl.  She  slept  heavily,  and  it 
seemed  to  him  that  there  was  a  shadow  under  her  eyes  and  he 
bent  still  more  closely  over  her  to  discover  that  the  shadow  was 
only  that  cast  by  her  long  lashes.  He  put  out  his  hand  and  laid 
it  softly  on  the  bright  cover. 

Sitting  thus,  he  faced  at  last  his  extraordinary  situation. 
Ten  o'clock  struck,  eleven,  twelve,  and  still  he  was  there.  His 
mind  traveled  to  Matthew's  babyhood,  to  Matthew's  childhood 
—  would  things  have  been  different  if  he  had  been  different.^  He 
was  still  young  then,  and  thinking  not  so  much  of  his  children  as 
of  his  own  miseries  of  mind  and  body,  he  had  not  realized  that  he 
was  guilty  of  neglect.  Even  yet  he  did  not  feel  like  a  middle- 
aged  man,  much  less  like  an  old  man  —  but  he  had  a  son  mature 
enough  to  defy  him  and  to  leave  his  house !  His  pride  was  deep 
and  high,  the  pride  of  a  man  of  intellect  —  he  contemplated 
with  horror  the  strange  atavistic  trick  played  upon  him. 


CHAPTER  IX 

A  GROWING  MIND 

That  Matthew  had  returned,  that  he  was  to  Hve  henceforth 
with  Grandfather,  that  he  was  not  even  to  come  to  the  house, 
were  facts  which  Ellen  found  difficult  to  comprehend,  yet  which 
she  accepted  with  a  child's  willingness  to  accept  what  her  father 
told  her.  The  family  separation  caused  comment,  but  no  great 
astonishment  in  a  neighborhood  where  differences  of  opinion  and 
the  separation  of  dissenters  were  frequent. 

Life  went  on  quietly,  yet  not  vvithout  interesting  events. 
Study  under  the  driving  spur  of  her  father's  encouragement 
was  an  absorbing  occupation  for  Ellen.  Presently  catalogues 
were  sent  for  and  schools  considered  and  compared.  When  a 
sample  examination  paper  arrived,  it  seemed  possible  that  she 
might  enter  college,  thoroughly  prepared,  in  two  years. 

Once,  before  Christmas,  her  father  took  her  away.  When  they 
drove  to  the  station  the  pale  winter  sun  had  not  yet  dispelled 
the  pearly  mist  which  lay  over  the  landscape,  nor  thawed  the 
ice  on  farmhouse  windows.  The  fields  were  covered  with  snow 
and  it  was  difficult  to  imagine  them  dressed  in  summer's  rich- 
ness of  corn  and  wheat  and  tobacco.  The  farmliouses  with  their 
huge  barns  looked  like  rich  manorial  properties,  as  well  they 
might  in  this  deep-soiled  country.  Until  they  reached  the  out- 
skirts of  the  larger  towns  nothing  was  to  be  seen  that  was  not 
beautiful,  the  white  stretches  of  snow,  the  frozen  streams  which 
showed  here  and  there  dark  pools,  the  fine  clumps  of  forest  trees, 
white  trunks  of  sycamores,  dark  masses  of  evergreens,  and  wil- 
lows tipped  with  yellow  beside  old  spring  houses.  Nor  was  there 
anything  that  was  not  indicative  of  prosperity  and  peace.  The 
houses  were  built  of  brick  and  stone,  the  fences  w^ere  straight 
and  in  good  repair,  there  were  no  weeds;  ignorance  might 
laugh  at  Mennonite  and  Dunker,  Amish  and  Seventh-Day  Bap- 
tist, who  had  tilled  the  fields  and  built  the  houses,  but  their 
thrift  and  labor  had  founded  a  great  commonwealth. 

The  ride  across  the  country  did  not  compare  in  Ellen's  mind 


74  ELLEN  LEVIS 

with  the  ride  between  the  Susquehanna  River  and  the  miles  of 
furnaces  and  mills.  The  sight  of  the  towering  Capitol,  viewed 
at  first  from  the  train  above  a  low  stretch  of  sordid  buildings, 
filled  her  with  delight.  When  they  had  climbed  the  steps  to  the 
esplanade,  her  father  turned  her  away  from  the  Capitol  so  that 
she  might  look  down  the  broad  street  to  the  river. 

"Oh,  Father!"  said  Ellen  holding  his  hand  tight. 

*'It  is  n't  very  long  since  this  was  only  a  frontier  fort  and  the 
Indians  came  floating  in  canoes  from  far  away  to  barter  furs 
for  flintlocks  and  powder,  and  for  mirrors  and  baubles  for 
their  squaws.  Sometime  we'll  go  across  the  river  and  get  a 
view  of  the  city  and  the  mountains." 

"Shall  we  really  come  again?"  asked  Ellen. 

When  they  went  indoors,  she  had  nothing  whatever  to  say. 
The  rotunda  was  at  first  simply  bewildering,  its  pictured  dome 
was  so  far  above  her,  its  walls  were  so  white,  the  angels  who  held 
glittering  lamps  on  high  were  so  majestic.  Led  from  place  to 
place  she  saw  interpreted  for  her  the  history  of  her  State.  Wil- 
liam Penn  stood,  an  austere  young  figure,  before  an  angry  father, 
waited  in  audience  before  stern  magistrates,  or  faced  westward 
high  on  the  prow  of  a  boat  against  a  stormy  sky.  Her  eyes  dwelt 
with  delight  upon  each  detail;  here  a  blue  sky  mirrored  in  a  tiny 
pool,  here  bright  grass,  here  velvets  and  laces,  here  a  lean  grey- 
hound's body,  here  leaping  flames  and  young  scholars  casting 
their  books  upon  the  fire. 

There  were  other  pictures ;  the  cold,  miserable,  intrepid  troopers 
of  Valley  Forge ;  William  Penn  and  a  magnificent  Indian  under 
a  yellow  tree;  the  reading  of  the  Declaration  of  Independence; 
and  last  of  all,  a  glorious  tableau  in  which  a  hundred  heroes  fig- 
ured. There  was  no  doubt  in  Ellen's  mind  that  she  had  seen 
the  most  magnificent  edifice  in  the  wide  world. 

But  there  were  new  joys  to  follow.  At  sunset  the  two  walked 
hand  in  hand  upon  the  long  street  by  the  river,  keeping  on  a 
path  close  to  the  brink.  When  Ellen's  eyes  left  the  golden  sur- 
face of  the  water,  they  saw  old  houses  firmly  built,  stately  and 
well  kept.  After  a  while  the  houses  were  newer  and  farther  apart. 
Far  across  the  river  trains  thundered. 

When  they  retraced  their  steps  the  glow  had  faded  and  lights 
sparkled  in  interminable  lines  and  were  reflected  in  the  dark, 


ELLEN  LEVIS  75 

velvety  water.  Ellen  was  young  and  eager,  a  warm  hand  held 
hers,  she  could  not  help  dancing  by  her  father's  side. 

"I'm  choosing  a  house,"  she  said.  "There  was  one  gray  stone 
house  on  a  corner  —  I'm  watching  for  it.  It  is  where  I  should 
like  to  live.  I  see  it  now,  people  are  going  in!" 

Halted  by  the  tightening  of  her  hand,  Levis  looked  across  at 
the  gray  house.  i\n  automobile  drove  away,  another  was  drawing 
up  to  the  curb.  Wrapped  in  furs,  a  lady  waited  on  the  pave- 
ment for  her  friends  from  the  second  car.  The  door  of  the  house 
was  open  and  a  maid  stood  on  the  upper  step. 

"Is  that  a  party.  Father?" 

Levis  did  not  answer.  T^Tien  the  door  closed  he  crossed  the 
street.  The  house  fronted  both  on  the  river  and  on  the  side  street, 
and  in  the  wing  there  was  apparently  a  suite  of  offices.  He  went 
closer  and  read  the  gilt  name  on  a  small  black  sign  —  "  Stephen 
Lanfair,  M.D."  Then  he  took  Ellen's  hand  and  walked  on.  So 
this  was  where  Stephen  lived  when  he  was  not  traveling  about 
the  world !  He  smiled  without  bitterness,  remembering  Stephen's 
vows  of  friendship. 

Ellen  looked  up  at  him,  a  vague  impression  growing  stronger. 
She  believed  that  he  w^ould  like  to  be  here ;  that  he  belonged  here, 
rather  than  with  people  like  Grandfather  and  Amos. 

"Would  you  like  to  live  here,  Father.^" 

"Would  you,  Ellen?" 

"Oh,  yes!" 

She  answered  still  more  ardently  that  night.  After  their  sup- 
per they  went  to  a  huge  lighted  building,  where  it  seemed  all  the 
ladies  had  gathered  from  the  fine  houses.  There  were  also  many 
gentlemen  with  such  an  expanse  of  shirt-bosom  as  she  had  never 
seen.  Here  was  something  to  tell  Mrs.  Sassaman  —  what  would 
she  say  to  such  ironing  as  that? 

"What  is  going  to  happen?"  she  asked  in  a  whisper  when 
they  had  been  taken  to  seats  in  the  first  row  of  the  balcony. 
Merely  to  sit  there  would  have  been  entertainment  enough,  but 
it  was  clear  that  some  additional  joy  was  at  hand. 

"Wait!"  said  her  father. 

She  watched  the  rising  curtain;  she  saw  standing  on  a  platform 
a  slender  young  man  with  a  violin  in  his  hand.  Now  violins  were 
wicked  —  Millie's  brother,  who  had  long  since  vanished,  was 


76  ELLEN  LEVIS 

said  to  have  brought  one  from  the  city  and  his  father  was  said  to 
have  broken  it  over  the  corner  of  the  stove. 

Then  she  took  her  father's  hand.  The  viohnist  moved  his  arm 
Hghtly  and  her  blood  raced  through  her  veins.  Her  mind  filled 
with  pleasing  images,  detached  from  one  another,  leading  no- 
where, dreamlike,  heavenly.  She  had  never  seen  dancing,  but  she 
felt  an  impulse  to  rise  and  discover  whether  she  was  really  light 
as  air,  whether  she  could  really  fly. 

"Oh,  Father!"  she  cried,  when  the  dancing  tune  was  over. 

Then  she  said  no  more,  had  no  vocabulary  with  which  to  say 
more.  She  felt  both  sorrow  and  gladness,  but  most  of  all  she  felt 
the  pains  of  growth.  There  were  tears  in  her  eyes,  then  on  her 
cheeks. 

When  on  the  way  to  the  hotel  her  father  asked  whether  she 
had  liked  it,  she  answered  his  question  in  a  curious  way. 

"I  wish  Matthew  would  come  back  to  us!" 

The  identical  desire  filled  Levis's  heart. 

"I  wish  so,  too.  Perhaps  you  can  persuade  him." 

"May  I  take  him  a  Christmas  present  and  speak  to  him 
then.?" 

"Certainly.  To-morrow  we'll  find  one  for  him." 

The  carefully  chosen  present  was  a  picture  which  reminded 
Ellen  of  the  view  from  Matthew's  window.  It  was  clear  to  Levis 
why  she  liked  it,  but  he  had  small  hopes  that  either  persuasion 
or  art  would  move  Matthew. 

"May  I  get  a  pair  of  gloves  for  Grandfather  and  something 
for  Amos?" 

"Yes,  if  you  wish." 

He  took  Ellen  and  her  packages  to  the  outer  gate  of  the  little 
cemetery  on  the  afternoon  before  Christmas.  The  location  of  the 
cemetery  suggested  to  him  always  a  memento  mori  —  the  brevity 
of  life  was  not  to  be  forgotten  by  the  residents  of  the  Kloster! 
The  whole  place  under  the  covering  of  snow  seemed  horribly 
dreary  and  forlorn.  Ellen  clambered  out  of  the  buggy  and  he  held 
her  packages  out  to  her. 

"In  an  hour  and  a  half  at  most,  I'll  be  here." 

"May  I  invite  them  for  Christmas  dinner?" 

"Yes." 

"And  Amos?"  asked  Ellen  hesitatingly. 


ELLEN  LEVIS  77 

"Yes,  and  Amos." 

She  held  her  packages  with  care.  She  had  tied  them  with  red 
cord  —  such  festive  packages  were  not  often  carried  through  the 
cemetery.  So  accustomed  was  she  to  the  path  that  she  gave  no 
thought  to  the  white  stones.  When  she  came  to  the  second  gate 
she  laid  her  bundle  down  and  fastened  the  latch,  as  Grandfather 
liked  to  have  it  fastened,  and  went  up  the  little  walk  to  the  cot- 
tage, already  shadowed  by  the  Saal  and  Saron.  It  had  never  been 
her  habit  to  knock  at  the  door,  and  she  did  not  knock  now,  but 
balancing  her  picture  carefully  on  one  arm,  she  lifted  the  latch 
and  entered. 

It  could  not  have  been  that  the  three  men  had  not  seen  her 
coming  —  Grandfather  sitting  by  the  stove  meditating,  and 
Amos  sitting  by  the  table  studying,  and  Matthew  sitting  idly  by 
the  window,  all  commanded  a  view  of  the  gate  and  the  grave- 
yard. Each  now  had  in  secret  a  throbbing  heart,  each  longed  to 
let  his  eyes  rest  upon  her,  to  devour  her.  But  none  had  gone  to 
open  the  door,  and  now  none  rose  to  welcome  her. 

But  her  smile  was  not  to  be  resisted.  It  brought  a  faint  motion 
to  Grandfather's  lips  and  a  red  flush  to  Matthew's  cheek,  and 
caused  both  heart  and  cheek  of  Amos  to  burn.  All  saw  a  change 
in  Ellen,  added  height,  a  brighter  color,  a  longer  dress.  Her 
dress  was,  moreover,  gayer.  Hitherto  Mrs.  Sassaman  in  selecting 
her  clothes  had  remembered  that  she  was  destined  to  be  a  Sev- 
enth-Day Baptist  and  that  therefore  plainness  was  her  portion; 
now  her  father  had  selected  a  new  coat  and  hat,  with  a  very  de- 
cided intention  that  she  was  not  to  be  plain  in  any  sense  of  the 
word.  Her  coloring  and  his  own  masculine  taste  inclined  him  to 
red,  but  the  clerk  had  persuaded  him  to  take  brown,  and  Ellen 
in  a  brown  coat  and  a  fur  cap  gratified  him  beyond  all  his  hopes. 

Her  appearance,  her  gayety,  and  above  all  her  greeting  moved, 
alas,  every  heart  against  her.  If  she  had  come  humbly,  plainly 
dressed,  remembering  the  circumstances  under  which  she  had 
departed,  her  grandfather  would  have  taken  her  to  his  arms.  If 
she  had  been  a  little  less  lovely,  Amos  would  not  have  been  afraid 
of  her.  If  she  had  been  quieter,  as  suited  her  sex  and  station, 
Matthew  would  not  have  turned  away  from  her. 

But  she  cried  out  with  singularly  poor  judgment,  "Merry 
Christmas,"  forgetting  that  Grandfather  beheved  in  searching 


78  ELLEN  LEVIS 

of  heart  rather  than  gayety  upon  such  occasions.  Upon  her 
grandfather's  cheek  she  bestowed  a  granddaughterly  kiss,  and  to 
Amos  she  gave  her  hand.  Then  going  to  Matthew,  she  put  her 
arms  round  him.  He  longed  to  respond,  to  put  both  his  arms 
round  her  and  to  hide  his  tearful  eyes  against  her  curls,  but  the 
expression  which  he  gave  to  this  desire  was  a  sharp, 

"You're  getting  too  old  for  such  foolishness,  Ellen." 

Ellen  backed  toward  the  table. 

"I  brought  you  Christmas  presents  —  gloves  for  you,  Grand- 
father, and  handkerchiefs  for  Amos,  and  a  picture  for  Matthew." 
She  handed  them  round,  one  by  one,  then  stood,  a  bewildered 
fairy-godmother,  in  the  midst  of  unresponsive  beneficiaries. 

"I  go  out  very  little  in  cold  weather" — this  from  Grandfather. 

Amos  did  not  lift  the  handkerchiefs  from  the  table. 

"I  don't  approve  of  pictures,  Ellen,"  said  Matthew.  "We 
would  much  better  be  reading  our  Bibles  than  looking  at  pic- 
tures." 

She  knew  suddenly  that  Matthew  would  not  come  home,  that 
they  would  not  come  to  dinner,  but  she  hurried  to  give  her  invi- 
tation before  she  should  lose  her  voice. 

"Father  and  Mrs.  Sassaman  and  I  would  like  you  all  to  come 
to  dinner  to-morrow.  Every  one.  We're  going  to  have  turkey." 

"We  have  no  heart  for  gayety,  Ellen,"  said  Grandfather. 

The  two  young  men,  with  the  healthy  appetites  of  their  age, 
had  a  second  of  inward  rebellion  against  this  decision,  then  they 
acquiesced.  Perhaps  it  was  his  recollection  of  the  Christmas  din- 
ner table  with  its  handsomest  white  cloth  with  a  red  border,  its 
smoking  fowl,  its  hot  mince  pies,  that  made  Matthew's  voice 
still  sharper,  his  words  more  cruel. 

"You  can  wrap  your  picture  up." 

"You  won't  come,  any  of  you.^"  whispered  Ellen,  her  eyes 
seeking  first  one,  then  the  other. 

Leaving  the  picture  in  Matthew's  hand  she  moved  toward  the 
door.  To  all  she  was  a  most  precious  creature  about  to  slip  away 
forever.  Her  grandfather  leaned  forward  in  his  chair,  pleading 
like  an  ancient  prophet. 

"Oh,  Ellen,  if  you  could  only  see  the  true  light!  There  is  only 
one  thing  worth  while  and  that  is  peace  with  God.  Not  educa- 
tion, but  your  salvation  should  be  your  concern." 


ELLEN  LEVIS  79 

Matthew*s  attack  was  savage.  A  strange,  fierce  jealousy  filled 
his  narrow  heart.  Ellen  had  always  obeyed  him,  she  should  obey 
him  now! 

"You  aren't  dressed  properly.  You  should  know  better  if 
Father  does  n't." 

Amos  did  not  speak,  but  his  eyes  burned.  If  he  might  only  talk 
to  this  poor  lamb ! 

"You  shan't  speak  against  Father!"  cried  Ellen.  "I  don't  see 
why  we  can't  live  at  peace  and  love  one  another.  It's  wicked 
for  Matthew  to  make  Father  feel  badly.  I  would  rather"  —  she 
knew  that  she  was  saying  a  monstrous  thing,  but  it  was  true  — 
"I  would  rather  lose  my  soul  than  hurt  any  one  like  that.  I 
would  n't  believe  a  religion  that  made  me  act  like  that.  I 
would  n't  believe"  —  she  was  now  too  excited  to  know  exactly 
what  she  was  saying —  "I  would  n't  obey  a  God  that  wanted 
me  to  act  like  that.  I  — " 

Her  sentence  unfinished,  she  got  outside  and  shut  the  door  be- 
tween her  and  them.  It  was  beginning  to  snow  and  it  might  be 
more  than  an  hour  before  her  father  came,  but  she  could  not  stay 
in  the  little  house. 

The  snow  thickened  and  twilight  fell  and  she  waited,  pacing 
up  and  down,  and  feeling  the  chill  of  the  raw  night  air  through 
her  whole  body.  She  did  not  go  beyond  the  turn  of  the  road,  nor 
would  she  start  home,  for  then  her  father  would  go  into  the  cot- 
tage to  inquire  for  her  and  he  might  be  met  by  reproaches  and 
impertinence.  Lights  shone  out  from  comfortable  warm  rooms  in 
Ephrata ;  men  returning  from  their  work  in  the  village  to  homes 
in  the  country  and  women  laden  with  packages  looked  at  her 
curiously;  but  she  did  not  forsake  her  post,  though  she  might 
have  walked  home  easily. 

When  at  last  her  father  arrived  she  was  shivering.  He  held  his 
restless  horse  with  one  hand  and  put  out  the  other  to  help  her. 
He  was  late  —  the  fastening  of  a  box  to  the  back  of  the  buggy 
had  taken  time. 

"What  in  the  world  are  you  doing  out  here.'^"  he  asked. 

"I'm  waiting  for  you." 

"But  why  here.?" 

"They  wouldn't  take  my  presents,"  wailed  Ellen.  "They 
did  n't  want  them;  they  think  I'm  wicked.  They  won't  come  to 


80  ELLEN  LEVIS 

dinner.  They  were  all  there.  Matthew  has  a  —  a  —  beard, 
Father!  I  — "  But  she  could  say  no  more. 

When  she  had  changed  her  clothes,  she  and  Mrs.  Sassaman 
taking  counsel  together  over  the  proper  method  of  pressing  the 
beautiful  coat,  and  had  had  supper,  Levis  asked  for  an  account 
of  the  afternoon. 

"We'll  think  no  more  of  it,"  said  he  when  she  had  finished. 
"Matthew  has  chosen  for  himself.  We've  done  everything  we 
can  and  it's  useless  to  cry  or  worry." 

But  she  refused  to  give  up  hope.  She  thought  of  Matthew  in 
the  night;  she  thought  of  him  the  next  morning,  when,  wakened 
by  the  strains  which  she  had  heard  Kreisler  play,  she  ran  down 
the  stairs  to  find  the  source  of  the  miracle  in  a  victrola  at  which 
Mrs.  Sassaman  and  her  father  stood  beaming;  she  thought  of 
him  at  intervals  through  the  snow-bound,  pleasant  day;  she 
thought  of  him  when,  with  Mrs.  Sassaman,  she  went  to  the 
Lutheran  celebration  and  listened  to  the  children  singing  their 
carols  and  saw  —  oh,  beautiful  sight!  —  a  tree  all  set  with  gleam- 
ing candles. 

Mrs.  Sassaman  felt  the  Christmas  spirit,  and  her  heart 
warmed  to  those  whom  she  served.  She  was  a  loyal  soul  and  she 
often  defended  Dr.  Levis  when  her  friends  blamed  him  for  Mat- 
thew's departure.  Her  marital  aspirations  had  grown  less  keen; 
she  asked  only  to  stay  and  serve.  With  this  thought  in  mind  she 
visited  Levis  in  his  office. 

"I  would  rather  be  Manda,"  said  she,  as  though  the  day  of 
her  request  to  be  called  Mrs.  Sassaman  were  but  yesterday. 

"Very  well,"  said  Levis.  "I  like  it  better,  it  is  friendlier." 

She  sat  down  uninvited.  She  gathered  now  and  then  from  her 
friends  descriptions  of  extraordinary  diseases,  and  these  she  re- 
ported to  Levis,  believing  them  to  be  professionally  useful.  She 
told  now  of  the  fearful  pain  which  "took"  the  friend  of  her 
friend,  of  the  treatment  by  the  medical  doctor  and  by  the  pow- 
wow doctor  and  of  the  "awful  witality'^  of  the  sufferer's  consti- 
tution. When  she  had  finished  she  rose  quickly  and  went  happily 
away. 

Ellen  thought  of  Matthew  every  day  through  the  winter  —  in 
the  short  mornings  when  there  seemed  to  be  so  much  to  learn;  in 
the  afternoons  when  the  world  moved  more  slowly;  in  the  eve- 


ELLEN  LEVIS  81 

nings  when  she  recited  her  lessons.  If  he  had  stayed  in  school,  he 
would  be  very  wise  indeed.  But  instead  of  studying  he  preferred 
to  work  in  the  stocking  factory  at  Ephrata  —  that  was  what 
Levis's  son  was  doing  now! 

One  spring  evening  Ellen  went  for  a  walk.  The  frost  was  out  of 
the  ground;  the  April  air  was  full  of  the  odor  of  wet  earth,  and 
when  one  stood  still  one  could  hear  little,  pleasant  sounds  of  run- 
ning water.  She  had  passed  the  time  when  her  aesthetic  sense  was 
limited  to  pleasure  in  a  glass  filled  with  wild  roses,  or  a  gratifying 
arrangement  of  autumn  leaves;  she  had  begun  to  observe  the 
delicate  colors  near  the  horizon,  the  soft  purple  of  the  old  fences, 
the  shapes  of  trees  and  of  groups  of  trees.  On  this  spring  evening 
it  was  heavenly  to  be  alive;  one  forgot  one's  haste  to  be  older, 
one's  regret  that  learning  was  a  slow  process,  one's  desire  to  see 
a  thousand  places,  the  cathedral  of  Rheims,  for  one,  and  the 
Doge's  palace  and  the  church  of  St.  Sophia  for  others,  which 
one  would,  which  one  must,  see  some  day.  She  forgot  even 
Matthew. 

Then  Matthew  recalled  himself.  Ellen  was  walking  slowly,  but 
not  so  slowly  as  two  persons  who  came  toward  her.  At  the  begin- 
ning of  the  descent  into  the  little  hollow  where  the  stream  ran, 
she  stopped  and  stood  still  to  listen  to  the  bubbling  water  and 
from  there  discerned,  silhouetted  against  the  yellow  sky,  two 
dark  figures  that  might  well  have  been  ghosts  of  the  early  settlers 
of  the  land.  The  man's  figure  was  tall,  the  woman's  short;  she 
wondered  what  couple  was  courting  on  this  pleasant  evening. 
Imagination  made  her  flush  suddenly,  but  before  she  had  time 
to  translate  the  incident  into  her  own  experience,  the  familiarity 
of  the  man's  outline  startled  her.  There  was  only  one  person  who 
had  shoulders  like  that  and  that  was  Matthew,  who  was  now  a 
Seventh-Day  Baptist,  having  been  plunged  one  morning  in  the 
cold  waters  of  the  creek. 

The  girl  with  Matthew  was  Millie  Konig,  could  be  no  other, 
and  the  young  people  of  the  Seventh-Day  Baptists  did  not  walk 
with  each  other  unless  they  were  betrothed! 

She  hurried  home  with  her  miserable  news. 

"Father,  I  saw  him  walking  in  the  road,  and  Millie  was  with 
him." 

Levis  knew  the  significance  of  this  companionship.  Under  his 


82  ELLEN  LEVIS 

breath,  he  said  scornfully,  "Good  Lord!"  and  aloud,  "We'll  tiy 
not  to  think  of  it,  Ellen.'* 

He  had  thought  often  since  his  visit  to  Harrisburg  of  Stephen. 
He  felt  with  increasing  frequency  the  uneasy  sensation  in  his 
heart  and  he  knew  that  he  ought  to  have  a  word  with  some  one 
about  it.  Stephen  was  an  eye  specialist,  but  he  was  also  ac- 
quainted with  general  medical  practice.  There  was  a  certain  dis- 
ease of  the  heart  which  warned  gently  for  a  long  time  and  then 
leaped  with  tigerish  swiftness  —  but  it  could  not  be  that! 

There  was  another  problem  which  he  should  like  to  lay  before 
his  friend.  Life  on  the  farm  would  be  intolerable  without  Ellen 
and  he  believed  himself  still  young  enough  to  find  another  place. 
Stephen  might  be  able  to  tell  him  of  a  practice  and  to  help  him  to 
it.  Neither  favor  was  too  large  to  ask  if  the  old  friendliness  con- 
tinued. He  planned  to  go  to  Harrisburg  at  some  convenient  sea- 
son, but  he  postponed  his  journey  week  after  week,  believing  that 
there  was  still  time  enough. 


CHAPTER  X 

UNEXPECTED  GUESTS 

A  LARGE  store  of  information  may  be  put  into  a  receptive  mind 
in  two  years.  Levis,  watching  his  sturdy  young  Ellen  to  see  that 
her  bright  cheeks  did  not  grow  pale  or  her  alert  step  slow,  pro- 
ceeded to  find  out  how  much  she  could  acquire.  It  was  a  new  and 
interesting  occupation,  but  his  pleasure  was  tempered  by  a  re- 
morseful wonder  as  to  how  much  could  have  been  accomplished 
if  he  had  not  been  so  certain  that  his  own  blood  and  the  spirit  of 
the  age  would  keep  Matthew  and  Ellen  safe. 

Ellen  continued  her  mathematics  and  concluded  her  geogra- 
phy. She  had  studied  Beginner's  Latin  with  Amos,  and  her  father 
required  her  to  translate  French.  Furnishing  his  pupil  with  an 
outline  of  English  history,  he  prescribed  reading  and  the  relating 
of  what  she  read.  Elementary  astronomy,  botany,  and  physiol- 
ogy she  absorbed  like  a  sponge. 

He  sent  for  books  which  he  had  long  wished  to  possess,  but 
had  denied  himself,  a  many-volumed  illustrated  history  of  art, 
a  history  of  music,  a  history  of  architecture  in  sumptuous  dress. 
He  sat  late  at  night  thinking  over  plans  for  Ellen,  and  even 
brought  his  accounts  up  to  date  and  sent  out  bills,  so  that  nothing 
might  be  denied  her. 

The  summer  and  another  winter  passed  and  between  the  farm 
and  the  Kloster  there  was  no  communication.  Ellen  saw  Mat- 
thew and  Millie  walking  together,  and  hid  by  the  roadside  or 
turned  back.  There  drifted  to  Levis's  ears  a  report  that  Matthew 
wished  to  marry,  but  that  Millie's  father  was  obdurate.  Millie 
should  not  marry  a  penniless  man,  the  two  must  wait;  when 
Matthew's  prospects  improved,  then  marriage  might  be  dis- 
cussed. He  had,  it  was  reported,  spoken  his  mind  plainly. 

"You  should  have  stayed  in  the  nest.  What  if  you  could  n't 
go  to  meeting  for  a  while?  You  are  now  near  twenty-one  and  then 
you  can  do  as  you  choose.  You  should  hav^e  consulted  with  some 
one." 

Ellen  had  little  idea  of  what  college  would  be  like,  and  still 


84  ELLEN  LEVIS 

less  of  what  life  would  be  like,  but  she  knew  that  they  must  be 
glorious  and  she  longed  intensely  for  both  experiences.  The  sec- 
ond summer  of  preparation  passed  slowly.  She  was  sure  that 
much  was  happening  elsewhere  and  she  knew  that  little  was  hap- 
pening to  her. 

One  Sunday  afternoon  she  went  to  sit  on  her  favorite  stump 
in  the  woodland.  Before  starting  she  looked  at  herself  in  the  mir- 
ror, at  her  curls  and  rosy  cheeks,  made  redder  by  a  reflection 
from  her  scarlet  tie.  She  held  up  her  hands  and  saw  with  satisfac- 
tion that  they  were  whiter  than  any  other  hands  she  knew. 

Her  inspection  had  the  result  which  usually  follows  the  self- 
inspection  of  seventeen  —  she  wished  that  there  was  some  one 
at  hand  to  admire.  Perhaps  in  the  woods  she  would  meet  a  stran- 
ger! There  she  could  at  least  dream  of  meeting  one. 

She  had  been  established  on  the  stump  for  an  hour,  now 
reading,  now  sitting  idly,  her  chin  in  her  hands,  when,  lifting 
her  head,  she  observed  that  the  farmhouse  was  about  to  receive 
an  unusual  visitation.  Since  the  house  stood  near  the  main  road, 
she  saw  daily  the  cars  of  tourists  who  were  starting  across  the 
country,  or  who  journeyed  to  Gettysburg  or  Pittsburgh.  Once, 
sitting  on  the  fence,  she  had  talked  to  several  elegant  ladies  who 
walked  about  while  a  tire  was  being  repaired. 

Now  a  car,  more  beautiful  than  any  she  had  ever  seen,  was 
turning  up  the  lane  and  approaching  the  farmhouse.  Its  pas- 
sengers had  come,  no  doubt,  to  ask  for  some  small  favor,  and 
she,  alas,  was  not  there  to  wait  upon  them!  A  month  ago  she 
would  have  run,  now  she  descended  in  as  rapid  a  walk  as  dignity 
would  permit. 

To  her  astonishment  she  found  when  she  reached  the  porch 
that  the  occupants  of  the  car,  except  the  driver,  had  gone  into 
the  house.  Curious  as  she  was,  she  was  seized  with  sudden  shy- 
ness and  wished  herseK  back  under  the  trees.  But  in  plain  view 
as  she  was  from  the  office  windows  there  was  nothing  to  do  but 
to  proceed. 

Her  father  appeared  at  the  office  door,  his  face  flushed  and 
smiling.  Stephen  Lanfair,  halting  for  a  moment  at  his  gate, 
had  seen  his  name  on  the  letter  box  and  had  come  in  with  his 
wife.  He  had  passed  unknowing,  he  said,  many  times.  Levis's 
heart  throbbed  so  that  he  had  to  draw  deep  breaths  of  air. 


ELLEN  LEVIS  85 

Stephen  was  the  old  Stephen;  his  renewal  of  their  friendship 
seemed  to  make  possible  all  he  had  dreamed.  Mrs.  Lanf air's 
presence  suggested  the  solution  of  another  problem  which  had 
troubled  him.  Ellen  needed  associations  and  opportunities  which 
he  did  not  know  how  to  give  her;  Mrs.  Lanfair  might  help  him 
to  provide  them. 

"Oh,  Ellen,  come  here,"  he  said,  not  without  pride.  "I  was 
just  going  to  find  you!" 

Ellen  felt  his  arm  across  her  shoulders.  It  was  silly  to  be 
afraid  of  meeting  strangers.  She  lifted  her  head  and  went  in 
smiling. 

"This  is  my  daughter." 

She  felt  her  hand  taken  in  a  long,  firm  grasp,  and  received  a 
general  impression  of  height  and  grayness  and  alertness  and 
very  bright  eyes.  She  looked  up  into  them  and  smiled,  feeling 
the  blood  rush  to  her  cheeks.  She  was  sensitive  and  she  had  as  yet 
received  few  impressions  which  were  not  those  of  childhood.  This 
stranger,  who  was  younger  than  her  father  and  much  older  than 
herself,  was  the  first  person  like  her  father  whom  she  had  ever 
met. 

"Your  daughter!"  said  a  low  voice. 

Then  she  heard  another  voice,  and  courage  vanished  and  em- 
barrassment returned.  It  was  that  of  a  woman,  seated  in  her 
father's  chair,  and  looking  about  with  appraising  eyes.  She  was 
small,  and  the  old  chair  in  which  she  sat  seemed  much  too  large 
for  her.  Ellen  saw  in  a  flash  the  handsome  and  slightly  bizarre 
dress,  through  the  yoke  and  sleeves  of  which  her  flesh  showed 
faintly  pink,  the  strange  and  pretty  face  with  brows  which  al- 
most met.  It  was  not  in  the  least  a  happy  face,  but  Ellen  was 
not  critical.  Hilda  was  not  interested  in  this  plain  menage  or  in 
Stephen's  old  acquaintance,  recalled  thus  suddenly  to  his  mind. 
But  it  pleased  her  for  the  moment  to  be  friendly. 

"Come  and  shake  hands  with  me,"  said  she,  and  Ellen 
obeyed,  feeling  young  and  awkward  and  ill  at  ease. 

"Do  you  go  to  school .f^" 

"I  go  to  school  to  my  father." 

"Have  you  brothers  or  sisters?" 

"I  have—" 

"One  brother  who  is  at  his  grandfather's,"  Levis  answered  for 


86  ELLEN  LEVIS 

her.  "Lanfair,  it  is  doubtless  difficult  for  an  observer  to  realize 
that  you  and  I  were  in  school  together." 

"In  school  together!"  Hilda  looked  from  one  to  the  other. 
"Impossible!" 

Stephen  halted  suddenly.  He  had  been  moving  about  rest- 
lessly, now  picking  up  one  of  Ellen's  books,  now  reading  the 
titles  on  Levis 's  shelves.  He  was  at  once  glad  and  ashamed  to 
have  found  Levis.  But  he  should  have  come  alone,  he  should 
not  have  brought  Hilda.  He  stood  close  to  Levis,  his  tightly 
closed  hand  thrust  into  the  pocket  of  his  coat. 

"Levis  was  an  instructor  and  a  Senior  at  once,  and  I  was  a 
Sophomore,"  he  explained.  "He  left  school  and  married  and  I 
continued  to  study.  I  did  n't  begin  to  practice  till  he  was  well 
settled  in  life."  He  turned  his  head  and  looked  at  Levis,  and 
from  eye  to  eye  a  message  flashed.  In  Stephen's  there  was  regret 
and  a  childlike  desire  to  be  restored  to  the  good  graces  of  an 
older  person. 

Levis  returned  the  glance  steadily  and  with  the  same  expres- 
sion with  which  he  looked  at  Ellen,  as  though  Stephen  needed, 
as  Ellen  needed,  love  and  care.  She  saw  the  exchange  and  curi- 
osity and  admiration  quickened.  She  glanced  at  Hilda  who  was 
taking  in  from  under  half -lowered  eyelids  the  old  sofa,  the  little 
table,  and  the  doctor's  medicine  cupboards.  Her  stare  made 
Ellen  determine  to  examine  carefully  all  these  articles  of  furniture. 
Had  the  never-failing  broom  of  Mrs.  Sassaman  left  lint,  or  had 
her  own  dust-cloth  touched  them  too  lightly.^ 

A  restless  step  brought  Stephen  to  her  little  table. 

"Are  these  your  books?" 

Ellen  explained  her  course  of  study.  His  bright  eyes  were  kind; 
she  looked  frankly  into  them  and  smiled  while  she  talked. 

"I'm  going  to  college  in  the  fall.  I  can  hardly  wait." 

Levis,  after  a  second's  reflection  about  the  present  temper 
of  Mrs.  Sassaman,  spoke  to  Hilda. 

"Won't  you  stay  and  have  supper  with  us?  Now  that  we 
have  you  here,  we'd  like  to  keep  you." 

Hilda  uttered  effusive  regrets  and  Levis  looked  at  her  curi- 
ously. Her  expression  had  changed;  it  was  no  longer  that  of 
slightly  bored  curiosity,  but  of  anger,  sharp  and  unpleasant. 
Her  eyes  darted  to  her  husband,  then  back  to  Levis,  and  then 


ELLEN  LEVIS  87 

back  again  to  the  little  table  where  Stephen  and  Ellen  stood 
together. 

"Oh,  thank  you.  It's  really  very  good  of  you,  but  it's  im- 
possible, really.  We  have  guests  ourselves  this  evening.  We 
should  be  going  now.  We  sail  for  Europe  on  Tuesday." 

"Medical  convention  at  Vienna.^"  asked  Levis,  his  keen, 
curious  eye  fixed  upon  her. 

"  Yes ;  that  is,  my  husband  is  going  there.  I  'm  going  to  Paris 
for  clothes.  I  don't  hke  conventions.  Nor  medicine,"  said  Hilda 
as  she  rose.  She  laid  one  hand  in  the  other  and  kneaded  them 
together  in  a  strange  gesture. 

"It's  time  to  go!"  said  she. 

Hearing  the  sharpened  voice,  Ellen  turned  swiftly.  How 
fairylike  this  stranger  was,  now  that  she  was  standing!  She 
determined  in  a  flash  to  live  on  bread  and  water,  to  take  some 
sort  of  medicine,  to  do  anything  to  resemble  her.  She  saw  the 
small,  arched  foot,  set  in  absurd,  high-heeled  shoes  —  how  did 
she  manage  to  stand,  and  how  to  walk?  But  she  did  both  grace- 
fully. Ellen  had  heard  the  invitation ;  she  hastened  to  second  it. 

"I  do  wish  you'd  stay!" 

Stephen  looked  down  at  her.  There  was  a  quality  in  Ellen 
which  was  hard  to  describe  unless  one  said  that  she  gave  her- 
self with  every  smile.  He  had  dismissed  the  thought  of  children 
as  he  had  dismissed  his  father's  creed,  but  from  his  deeper  con- 
sciousness an  instinctive  longing  rose.  "I  wish  I  had  her  or  one 
Hke  her!"  said  he  to  himself  with  sudden  startled  hunger. 

"Won't  you  stay.^"  said  Ellen  to  him. 

Then  Ellen  was  conscious  that  something  unpleasant  had 
been  said  or  done.  She  could  not  tell  what  it  was,  but  she  felt 
that  she  had  given  offense.  Hilda  went  out  quickly  into  the  hall 
and  stood  waiting.  She  did  not  speak  to  Levis  or  to  Ellen;  she 
only  said  once  more,  "  I  said  that  it 's  time  to  go! " 

"You're  not  really  going  this  minute!"  protested  Levis,  his 
sharp  disappointment  quickening  his  throbbing  heart 

"Yes,"  said  Stephen.  His  voice  was  louder  than  it  had  been 
and  even  a  little  more  pleasant.  "We  really  must  be  off."  He 
held  out  his  hand.  "I  haven't  forgotten  anything,  not  any- 
thing!" 

Hilda  followed  across  the  grass  to  the  car  and  stepped  in. 


88  ELLEN  LEVIS 

From  the  car  Stephen  waved  his  hand  and  Levis  and  Ellen  waved 
theirs.  Hilda  did  not  look  back.  The  car  started  noiselessly; 
they  sat  like  king  and  queen  in  a  state  chariot,  a  silent  retainer 
conducting  them. 

*'I  think  she  behaved  in  a  very  queer  way,"  said  Ellen. 

*'I  agree  with  you,'*  said  Levis.  He  went  into  his  office  and 
stood  looking  at  the  books  in  his  case,  and  Ellen  followed  closely. 

"Who  are  they.?" 

"He  was  a  friend  in  college.  I  have  n't  seen  him  for  years." 
Frowning,  Levis  took  down  one  of  a  set  of  volumes  and  went  to 
his  desk.  "He  was  a  nice  boy." 

"Was  he  married  when  you  knew  him?" 

"No;  I  remember  hearing  that  he  had  married  a  rich  wife." 

"She  must  be  very  rich.  Did  you  know  they  were  coming .f^" 

"No,  indeed." 

"Where  do  they  live?" 

Levis  had  opened  his  book  at  the  letter  "D,"  and  did  not 
answer.  The  uneasy  sensation  in  his  heart  had  sharpened  once  or 
twice  in  the  last  hour  to  an  acute  though  fleeting  pain,  gone  as 
soon  as  it  was  felt.  He  had  seen  Stephen,  but  the  visit  seemed 
to  make  impossible  all  that  he  had  hoped  for. 

For  a  moment,  in  curiosity  about  Hilda's  behavior,  he  forgot 
his  own  problems.  He  had  found  the  article  which  he  wished  to 
consult  under  the  letter  "D,"  but  he  could  not  fix  his  mind  on 
what  he  read.  It  was  in  reality  something  within  his  own  breast 
which  disturbed  him,  but  it  seemed  to  him  that  it  was  Ellen  hang- 
ing over  his  shoulder  and  cutting  off  the  air  which  he  needed. 

"  I  wish  you  'd  run  away,  Ellen,  for  a  httle  while.  I  '11  talk  to 
you  later  about  these  people." 

"All  right,"  said  Ellen  cheerfully,  remembering  her  own  un- 
willingness to  be  interrupted.  She  read  over  his  shoulder  —  " '  De- 
mentia' —  Father,  who  has  that?" 

"No  one  that  I  know  of.  Missy." 

"I  expect  you  think  I  have  it.  Well,  read  away,  I  won't 
bother." 

Levis  smiled  at  the  tone  of  maternal  indulgence,  then  he  re- 
turned to  his  book.  Again  he  put  his  hand  over  his  heart  uneasily. 
The  sensation  was  now  of  weak  fingers  moving  gently.  He 
coughed,  then  he  looked  at  Ellen  who  had  sat  down  at  her  table. 


ELLEN  LEVIS  89 

What  a  strange  woman  Lanf air's  wife  was!  What  had  annoyed 
her?  Most  wives  who  brought  fortunes  proved  to  be  impeditive 
in  some  fashion  —  there  was  unquestionably  an  impediment  here ! 
He  turned  a  page  and  read  for  a  moment.  There  was  a  mental 
disorder  difficult  to  distinguish  in  early  stages  from  sheer  devil- 
ishness  of  disposition ;  and  patients  had  peculiar  traits  and  nerv- 
ous ways  like  this  woman.  Poor  Lanf  air!  Perhaps  he  would  re- 
turn and  confide  in  his  old  friend.  He  had  looked  as  though  he 
needed  a  refuge. 

Presently  Ellen  returned  to  her  place  on  the  stump  and  there 
sat  for  half  an  hour. 

"I  think  she  was  very  disagreeable,"  she  said,  beginning  to 
speculate  about  married  life.  She,  Ellen,  would  never  make  her 
husband  uncomfortable! 

*'If  I  get  one!"  said  Ellen.  "And  he  was  splendid!" 

They  must  live  in  a  very  grand  house  —  perhaps  she  and  her 
father  might  some  day  visit  them.  She  realized  that  she  did  n't 
even  know  their  name  —  how  strange  the  whole  incident  was ! 

At  the  end  of  half  an  hour  curiosity  sent  her  back  to  the  house. 
Her  father  had  now  had  time  to  read  all  he  wanted,  she  was 
sure.  She  remembered  that  to-morrow  a  dressmaker  was  coming 
to  get  her  ready  for  school  and  she  sang  for  joy  as  she  walked. 

But  in  the  haK-hour  that  she  spent  in  the  woodland,  life  had 
taken  a  long  stride.  Levis  sat  with  his  treatise  open  at  "De- 
mentia," his  eyes  still  bent  upon  the  page.  He  had  not  moved 
since  she  went  away. 

"Father!"  she  cried  gayly. 

He  answered  without  lifting  his  head. 

"I've  been  taken  suddenly  with  a  bad  stitch  in  my  side, 
Ellen,  and  I  don't  wish  to  move  until  I've  had  medicine.  You'll 
find  it  in  the  right-hand  cupboard  in  a  blue  bottle.  Bring  me  a 
pellet." 

Ellen  obeyed  quickly,  growing  pale.  Levis  broke  the  pellet 
in  his  hand  and  held  it  close  to  his  nostril,  then  he  straightened 
his  shoulders.  It  was  exactly  like  a  tiger  that  the  thing  leaped 
upon  one! 

"I'm  going  over  to  the  couch.  Don't  be  frightened  if  I  go 
slowly.  Lend  me  your  shoulder." 

Ellen  made  her  shoulder  like  iron. 


90  ELLEN  LEVIS 

"Telephone  Dr.  Wescoe." 

Ellen  flew.  It  seemed  when  she  returned  that  her  father's  face 
was  less  terribly  gray  and  drawn. 

"What  shall  I  do  now?" 

Levis  managed  a  wry  smile. 

"You'll  make  a  capital  doctor.  Bring  paper  from  your  desk 
and  sit  here,  beside  me.  You  must  be  brave  and  steady." 

Ellen  obeyed  swiftly. 

"I've  known  for  some  time  that  my  heart  was  a  bit  out  of 
order.  I'm  likely  to  have  another  attack,  but  probably  not  be- 
fore the  doctor  gets  here.  I  want  you  to  write  something  down." 

Ellen  looked  steadily  at  Levis.  If  she  held  his  eyes  with  hers, 
they  could  not  become  blank,  unseeing,  as  they  were  a  moment 
ago !  There  was  in  his  face  now  a  dreadful  eagerness.  In  spite  of 
the  last  hour  he  turned  in  desperate  need  to  the  memory  of 
Stephen's  old  affection.  Stephen  had  forgotten  for  a  while,  but 
he  meant  to  remember  and  he  would  help  him  now.  He  felt 
the  same  fearful  despair  which  he  had  felt  as  a  boy  when  he 
needed  food  and  did  not  know  where  to  get  it.  He  had  heard  the 
Creator  called  upon  at  too  many  death-beds  to  ignore  entirely 
that  refuge,  but  he  was  not  one  to  turn  even  in  such  a  moment 
to  a  help  which  he  had  denied.  The  "sum  and  term  "  of  education 
had  not  been  his,  the  loss  by  death  of  one  whom  he  had  deeply 
loved.  If  his  wife  had  died  in  their  earliest  married  life,  or  if 
Ellen  had  died,  his  spiritual  history  might  have  been  different. 

But  what  was  it  he  had  meant  to  do.^  Ah,  yes!  Ellen  was  wait- 
ing, pencil  in  hand. 

"I  give  to  my  daughter  Ellen  all  my  property  and  make  my 
friend — " 

"'Make  my  friend,'"  repeated  Ellen  after  a  pause. 

"Can  you  remember  his  name,  EUen.f^" 

"I  don't  think  I  heard  it!" 

"It'll  come  to  me!  Listen!  You  and  Matthew  inherit  this  farm 
from  your  mother.  What  I  have  besides  you  must  take.  Don't  let 
them  shame  you  out  of  it !  Remember  it 's  my  will.  If  you  wish, 
you  can  live  economically  and  share  with  Matthew  after  you  've 
had  your  education.  I  feel  better,  darling."  He  took  suddenly  a 
long,  relieving  breath.  After  all  he  was  not  to  be  cut  off  now 
from  life,  from  Ellen.  He  looked  deeply  into  her  frightened  eyes. 


ELLEN  LEVIS  91 

It  was  now  that  she  would  need  him !  He  had,  he  felt  suddenly 
with  amazement,  not  yet  really  lived;  he  could  not  die!  Tears 
rolled  down  upon  his  cheeks.  "  I  '11  be  able  to  eat  supper  with  you, 
I  'm  sure.  We  need  n't  worry  to  complete  the  paper.  The  doc- 
tor will  write  it  for  me.  Don't  look  so  horrified.  I  think — '* 

His  smile  stiffened  suddenly  and  drops  of  perspiration  ap- 
peared upon  his  forehead.  Was  everything  then  over.?  He  put 
out  his  hands  and  took  Ellen's  face  between  thenx 

"Don't  let  them  keep  you  here!  Remember!" 

"I'll  remember,"  promised  Ellen. 

Her  head  dropped  to  his  breast,  pressed  by  his  hands  close 
to  his  heart.  She  could  see  nothing,  but  she  could  hear  a  strange 
beating  sound  like  a  wooden  hammer  upon  flesh.  Her  body  was 
cramped;  it  seemed  to  her  that  she  could  not  breathe;  then  her 
father's  embrace  relaxed  and  she  rose  quickly. 

Her  wild  glance  sought  the  window.  Mrs.  Sassaman  drove 
slowly  up  the  lane,  Dr.  Wescoe's  car  turned  in  from  the  highway, 
but  their  coming  now  made  no  difference. 


CHAPTER  XI 

CHANGE 

Within  a  few  minutes  the  farmhouse  took  on  the  air  of  almost 
hysterical  activity  which  follows  upon  a  sudden  death.  Mrs. 
Sassaman,  after  sinking  upon  a  chair  and  giving  a  few  tearful 
gasps,  went  to  her  room  to  change  her  dress,  so  that  she  might 
set  to  work.  The  tenant  farmer  drove  away  to  carry  the  start- 
ling news  to  Grandfather  and  Matthew,  and  his  wife  panted  up 
the  hill  and  sat  waiting  in  the  kitchen  until  Mrs.  Sassaman  should 
be  ready  to  give  her  the  detailed  information  for  which  her  soul 
longed.  But  Mrs.  Sassaman  had  too  exalted  a  sense  of  her  own 
importance  to  gossip.  There  were,  moreover,  many  things  to  be 
done  at  once,  the  house  to  be  put  in  perfect  order,  funeral  meats 
to  be  baked,  the  bees  to  be  told  of  their  master's  death,  and  all 
the  jars  of  preserves  in  the  cellar  to  be  turned. 

Matthew  returned  with  Calvin  bringing  word  that  Grandfather 
would  follow  with  Amos.  Having  had  no  active  exercise,  Matthew 
had  grown  stout  and  looked  nearer  thirty  than  twenty.  He  kissed 
Ellen  and  they  sat  silently  until  Grandfather  arrived. 

*'The  Lord  gave,  the  Lord  hath  taken  away,  blessed  be  the 
name  of  the  Lord."  It  was  Grandfather's  accustomed  salutation 
on  entering  a  house  of  mourning.  He  spoke  with  a  long  sigh 
which  expressed  his  apprehension  about  the  fate  of  his  son- 
in-law. 

In  spite  of  his  misgivings  he  planned  to  bury  Levis 's  body  in 
the  little  cemetery  beside  his  wife.  Wednesday  afternoon  would 
be  a  suitable  time  and  he  would  preach  the  sermon  himself.  For  a 
half-hour  the  three  men  and  Ellen  sat  together  in  the  parlor. 
Frequently  Matthew  glanced  at  Ellen,  then  away.  God  had 
strangely  given  him  his  heart's  desire,  but  he  could  not  help 
pitying  Ellen.  He  felt  very  solemn  and  important. 

"I  don't  think  that  bright  tie  looks  well  under  the  circum- 
stances, Ellen,"  he  said  gently. 

Ellen  rose  and  went  upstairs.  As  she  reached  the  upper  step 
she  heard  the  door  of  her  father's  office  open  and  the  undertaker 


ELLEN  LEVIS  93 

come  into  the  hall.  At  once  the  three  black  figures  crossed  to  the 
office.  She  heard  whispers  and  the  door  was  closed. 

She  did  not  know  whether  an  hour  had  passed  or  only  a  few 
minutes  when  she  heard  her  name  called  solemnly.  Grandfather 
stood  by  the  parlor  table,  a  tablet  in  his  hand.  His  black  eyes 
gleamed,  his  old  hand  shook.  Matthew's  eyes  were  bent  upon  the 
floor  and  Amos  looked  at  Ellen  in  a  frightened  way. 

Grandfather  stepped  between  Ellen  and  the  door  and  closed 
it.  It  seemed  to  her  that  she  was  shut  into  prison  with  three 
jailers. 

"What  is  the  matter?"  she  asked. 

"That  is  what  we  have  to  ask  you,  Ellen,"  said  Grandfather. 
"What  is  this  paper?" 

Ellen  recognized  the  writing  which  she  had  begun  at  her 
father's  command. 

"That  is  mine,  Grandfather.  Please  give  it  to  me." 

Grandfather  held  out  the  paper  so  that  she  might  read,  but  he 
did  not  relinquish  it. 

"Did  you  write  those  words?" 

"Yes." 

"Who  is  this  friend?" 

"He  is  a  friend  of  Father's  who  was  here  this  afternoon." 

"What  is  his  name?" 

"I  don't  know." 

"Where  does  he  live?" 

"I  don't  know." 

"Does  he  know  anything  of  this?" 

"No." 

"You  did  n't  write  this  after  your  father  died,  Ellen?" 

The  words  at  first  merely  paralyzed.  When  their  import  was 
clear,  she  could  say  nothing.  Her  silence  was  to  Grandfather  con- 
demning —  alas,  for  the  human  soul  which  is  unsupported  by 
Christian  principles! 

"Why,  no!"  she  cried  at  last.  "Of  course  not!  He  started  to 
dictate  it  to  me,  but  before  he  had  finished  he  felt  better  and 
thought  it  might  be  postponed." 

"You  knew  you  were  writing  words  which  would  take  your 
brother's  property  away?" 

"No,"  said  Ellen.  "It  was  my  father's  property." 


94  ELLEN  LEVIS 

She  saw  a  glance  pass  from  Matthew  to  Grandfather.  Both 
sincerely  believed  that  God  had  prevented  Levis  from  doing  a 
deed  of  injustice. 

*'It  was  n't  sisterly  to  write  such  words!" 

"I  didn't  mean  to  be  unsisterly,"  protested  Ellen.  "Father 
wanted  me  to  be  educated.  He  said  that  Matthew  could  get 
along  well." 

Grandfather  tore  the  upper  sheet  from  the  tablet  and  put  it 
into  his  pocket. 

"We  should  have  very  little  respect  in  the  community  if  such 
a  thing  were  known." 

Now  Amos  found  his  tongue.  He  leaned  forward,  his  cheeks 
crimson. 

"Ellen  could  not  be  dishonest,"  he  said. 

Grandfather  looked  at  him  in  amazement. 

"The  w^omen  make  serious  mistakes,  and  Ellen  has  made  one. 
They  act  before  they  think.  Now  I  will  take  the  first  watch  to- 
night." 

Ellen  crept  slowly  up  the  back  stairway  and  closed  her  door. 
Tears  came  in  a  flood,  hot,  blinding,  choking,  drowning  all 
thought,  preventing  realization  of  the  seriousness  of  her  be- 
reavement. After  a  long  time  she  fell  asleep. 

In  the  two  days  preceding  the  funeral  she  made  plans.  Only 
thus  could  she  keep  her  composure  and  continue  to  feel  a  connec- 
tion with  her  father.  It  was  now  June.  She  would  stay  until 
September,  then  she  would  go  to  college,  as  he  had  intended. 
Matthew  would  doubtless  come  here  to  live  and  would  bring, 
alas!  Millie  with  him.  But  she  must  reconcile  herseK;  since  she 
was  going  to  have  her  way,  Matthew  should  have  his. 

She  lived  through  the  funeral  service  with  few  tears.  The 
house  was  thronged,  and  the  line  of  carriages  and  automobiles 
extended  far  down  the  road.  Levis  had  lived  differently  from 
his  neighbors  and  there  was  much  curiosity  about  his  house. 
He  had  used  it  all,  treating  the  parlor  as  though  it  were  no  more 
precious  than  the  kitchen,  and  drawing  no  shades  to  keep  car- 
pets from  fading.  There  were  a  few  strangers  present,  members 
of  the  county  medical  society  to  whom  Levis 's  connections  by 
marriage  were  vaguely  interesting. 

Grandfather  preached  upon  the  certainty  of  death  and  the 


ELLEN  LEVIS  95 

necessity  for  preparation,  and  made  no  allusion  to  Levis's  here- 
sies. When  they  returned  to  the  house  Ellen  expected  that  he 
and  Amos  and  Matthew  would  return  to  the  Kloster.  But  in- 
stead all  went  into  the  office. 

"Ellen!"  called  Grandfather. 

Ellen  went  unwillingly  and  sat  down  on  a  chair  near  the  door. 
She  dreaded  argument,  it  could  only  cause  ill-feeling.  Her  plans 
were  made. 

*' Ellen,  death  brings  changes  with  it.  It  will  bring  change  to 
you."  There  was  a  gloating  affection  in  Grandfather's  voice.  He 
believed  that  God  was  bringing  Ellen  back  to  him. 

*'Yes,"  said  Ellen  quickly,  determined  not  to  cry. 

"WTien  the  father  goes,  we  must  consider  the  property.  Now 
your  mother  had  this  farm,  inherited  from  her  aunt  for  whom  she 
was  named,  and  she  left  it  to  your  father  to  go  after  his  death  to 
you  and  Matthew,  share  and  share  alike." 

"Yes,"  said  Ellen. 

"It  is  only  natural  that  Matthew  should  want  to  move  on  his 
property  now." 

"Yes,"  said  Ellen.  "Of  course." 

"It  is  Matthew's  intention  to  be  married." 

"Yes,"  said  Ellen  faintly. 

"He  has  chosen  a  modest  and  pious  young  woman  of  his  own 
faith  who  will  doubtless  be  a  blessing  to  him.  He  wishes  to  be 
married  soon." 

"I'm  glad  if  Matthew  is  happy."  Ellen's  eyes  sought  Mat- 
thew's timidly. 

"Then  he  will  come  here." 

"When  wiU  that  be?" 

"I  had  thought  not  till  spring,"  said  Matthew  for  himself. 
"But  now  it  will  be  sooner,  perhaps  in  a  few  weeks."  That  por- 
tion of  his  cheeks  which  remained  uncovered  glowed  brightly. 
He  had  waited  long  to  possess  MiUie  and  the  delay  was  dis- 
turbing his  regular  and  calm  mental  processes. 

"Not  so  soon  as  that!"  cried  Ellen,  in  amazement. 

"Yes,"  said  Matthew  firmly.  "Father  is  gone  and  things  are 
changed  and  the  sooner  we  get  used  to  the  new  ways  the  bet- 
ter." 

"But  Calvin  will  be  here  till  April!" 


96  ELLEN  LEVIS 

"I  shall  continue  to  employ  him.  I  have  talked  with  him 
already.'* 

Ellen's  face  paled. 

"I  thought  I'd  stay  here  with  Mrs.  Sassaman  till  September. 
Then  we  could  have  the  house  ready  for  you  before  I  go." 

Matthew  changed  his  position,  settling  himself  more  firmly  in 
his  chair.  Ellen  would  have  to  do  as  he  said;  God  was  blessing 
her  by  giving  her  no  choice. 

"Now,  Ellen,  let  us  talk  this  out.  The  farm  belongs  to  you  and 
me  —  is  n't  it  sensible  that  we  stay  here  and  work  it?  Milhe 
is  n't  such  a  strong  person  as  some  and  she  may  be  from  time  to 
time  laid  up,  and  then  there  would  have  to  be  hired  help.  Is  n't  it 
foolish  to  hire  a  woman  when  you  are  well  and  strong.^" 

"Oh,  but,  Matthew,  I'm  going  to  college!  It's  all  settled!  You 
know  that  I'm  to  go  to  college!" 

Silence  was  Matthew's  answer.  It  was  a  pity  that  Ellen  was 
still  stubborn.  Grandfather  took  off  his  spectacles. 

"Ellen,"  he  began  patiently,  "you  don't  understand  business 
matters.  The  farm  is  much  run  down  and  Matthew  means  to 
build  it  up.  If  he  gives  it  the  attention  it  should  have,  and  makes 
new  fences,  and  gets  the  implements  and  lime  and  everything 
needed,  there  won't  be  any  extra  income  for  five  years  anyhow." 

"Then  I  shall  be  too  old  to  go  to  college!" 

"You  know  already  far  more  than  is  necessary." 

"But  if  I'm  not  willing  to  stay  here,  if  I  think  it's  wrong,  if  I 
refuse?''  Ellen's  voice  was  still  steady. 

"I  don't  wish  to  be  hard  on  you,  Ellen.  My  heart  yearns  over 
you.  But  I'm  your  natural  guardian  and  I  have  control  over 
your  property.  I  think  that  Matthew's  plan  is  correct,  and  that 
it  should  be  carried  out.  You  can't  expect  him  in  these  first  years 
to  run  a  farm  and  raise  a  family  and  pay  an  income  besides!" 

"But  there  was  Father's  will  that  he  wished  me  to  WTite," 
said  Ellen,  still  steadily.  "His  last  thought  was  that  I  should  be 
educated." 

"It  is  this  way,  Ellen.  Your  father  left  no  real  will.  He  had 
about  five  thousand  dollars  saved.  Now  half  of  five  thousand  is 
two  thousand  five  hundred,  and  the  income  on  that  is  only  a 
little  over  a  hundred  dollars  a  year.  That  would  not  take  you 
far." 


ELLEN  LEVIS  97 

"But  he  thought  it  was  enough!'* 

"He  meant  to  let  you  spend  the  principal,  Ellen.  That  cannot 
be  now." 

Ellen  knitted  her  brows. 

"I'll  sell  Matthew  my  part  of  the  farm." 

Grandfather  shook  his  head. 

"We  could  n't  let  you  do  that.  The  farm  will  be  worth  much 
more  in  five  years  than  now.  If  we  did  such  a  thing  our  neighbors 
would  reproach  us  because  we  had  n't  dealt  fairly  with  you." 

"Let  me  have  my  two  thousand  five  hundred  dollars."  begged 
Ellen.  Here  was  light  in  darkness!  "That  is  all  I  need;  that  will 
see  me  through." 

Grandfather  shook  his  head. 

"I  can't  consent  to  that,  either,  Ellen.  That  must  be  held 
against  a  rainy  day  and  meanwhile  its  income  must  go  into  the 
farm.  My  child,  try  to  accept  your  lot !  You  have  a  home,  com- 
fort, everything  you  need,  and  if  you  stand  by  Matthew  you  will 
have  more  than  you  need." 

"I  think  families  should  be  alone!"  Ellen  cried  desperately. 
"If  I  were  Millie  I  wouldn't  want  any  one  to  help  run  my 
house." 

"You  don't  know  Millie,"  said  Matthew  earnestly.  "She  has 
no  proud  ideas  and  she's  very  willing  to  have  you  help  her.  I 
have  laid  the  matter  before  her." 

Grandfather  went  to  speak  to  Calvin  and  Amos  followed  him. 
Matthew  would  have  followed  also,  but  Ellen  called  him  back. 
She  stood  by  her  father's  desk,  facing  his  unwilling  gaze. 

"Is  it  possible,  Matthew,  that  you  won't  help  me  go  to 
school?  Could  n't  you  lend  me  money .^^  You  have  the  farm  as 
security." 

"You're  not  of  age.  You'd  have  to  have  Grandfather's  con- 
sent, and  that  he  would  n't  give.  Besides,  to  be  frank  with  you, 
I  've  had  experience  with  advanced  schooling  and  I  could  n't 
help  you  to  it  under  any  circumstances.  It  begets  pride  of  intel- 
lect, it  leads  young  people  away  from  God,  it  is  a  curse." 

Suddenly  Ellen  looked  at  her  brother  with  a  detached  curios- 
ity, as  her  father  had  looked  at  him.  When  he  had  gone  she  went 
up  to  her  room.  Its  loneliness  was  intolerable,  and  still  more  difii- 
cult  to  bear  was  the  sound  of  the  evensong  of  birds,  the  sight  of 


98  ELLEN  LEVIS 

the  young  moon  rising  over  the  woodland,  and  the  echo  of  a 
laugh  from  the  road.  She  went  down  to  the  kitchen.  Mrs. 
Sassaman  was  on  the  porch,  her  handkerchief  pressed  to  her 
eyes,  swaying  back  and  forth  in  her  rocking-chair:  Ellen  deter- 
mined to  go  and  sit  on  the  step  and  lay  her  head  against  her 
knee. 

Instead  she  turned  and  went  back  to  her  room  and  sat  down 
at  the  window.  She  would  not  give  way  to  mourning  with  Mrs. 
Sassaman,  kind  though  she  was.  This  was  no  time  to  mourn;  she 
must  think,  must  find  some  avenue  of  escape.  Wisdom  and  peace 
of  mind  came  from  learning  —  her  father  had  had  both  —  learn- 
ing she  must  have  to  lift  her  from  despair. 

Suddenly  her  heart  leaped.  The  mysterious  visitor  to  whom 
her  father  meant  to  entrust  her  —  who  and  where  was  he?  He 
had  said  that  he  lived  not  far  away.  Lancaster,  Harrisburg, 
Reading,  York  were  not  far  away  —  even  Philadelphia  was  not 
much  more  than  fifty  miles.  But  she  did  not  know  his  name,  she 
had  not  observed  which  way  his  car  had  turned  at  the  foot  of  the 
lane.  And  he  was  sailing  at  once  for  Europe !  But  he  might  read 
of  her  father's  death  in  the  newspaper  before  he  sailed  or  later 
in  one  of  the  medical  journals  which  published  obituaries.  Here 
was  a  gleam  of  hope !  Her  immaturity  resented  grief,  repudiated 
it,  would  not  harbor  it.  She  paced  up  and  down  the  room,  now 
making  wild  plans,  now  crying.  She  had  not  yet  realized  what 
had  happened  and  she  still  had  high  hopes  of  hfe. 


CHAPTER  XII 

A  QUICKENING  TERROR 

Mrs.  Fetzer,  the  housekeeper,  received  Hilda's  dinner  guests  on 
the  evening  of  the  visit  to  Levis.  It  was  not  a  convenient  season 
for  guests,  it  being  Sunday  and  the  larger  part  of  the  staff  of  serv- 
ants having  been  dismissed  yesterday,  but  Hilda  had  extended 
her  invitation  with  her  usual  indifference  to  the  comfort  of  others. 
Her  trunks  were  not  yet  packed  nor  had  she  indicated  what  ar- 
ticles were  to  go  into  them.  Miss  Knowlton  and  Miss  Mac  Vane, 
who  had  expected  to  receive  that  afternoon  directions  about  a  re- 
arrangement of  Stephen's  records  and  the  preparation  of  data  for 
a  series  of  articles,  had  come  at  five  o'clock  and  waited  until  seven. 

Fetzer  was  annoyed,  but  not  in  the  least  dismayed,  having 
been  prepared  for  this  event  by  many  similar  experiences.  She 
put  on  her  best  black  silk  dress  and  welcomed  the  two  women 
and  two  men  who,  undisturbed,  settled  themselves  in  the  library 
for  a  game  of  cards;  then  she  changed  to  less  elegant  attire,  since 
in  the  absence  of  the  waitress  she  would  serve  their  dinner. 
Neither  the  black  patch  over  her  eye,  nor  the  quick  motions  by 
which  she  compelled  one  eye  to  serve  as  two,  made  her  repulsive 
or  grotesque. 

Waiting  upon  the  table  she  saw  that  something  more  serious 
had  occurred  than  the  puncturing  of  a  tire  which  had  delayed 
the  Lanfairs  after  leaving  Levis's  house.  Hilda  hailed  her  friends 
carelessly  and  asked  that  dinner  be  served  at  once.  She  ate  little, 
watched  impatiently  Fetzer's  deliberate  ways,  and  announced  as 
she  rose  from  the  table  that  her  packing  was  still  to  be  done.  The 
guests  departed  amiably  with  loud  good  wishes  for  the  journey. 

Fetzer,  going  into  the  hall  to  tell  Stephen  that  Miss  BjQowlton 
and  Miss  Mac  Vane  waited,  approached  the  library  door  slowly. 
Observing  him  furtively  during  dinner,  she  had  been  shocked 
by  his  expression;  he  looked  to  her  like  a  beaten  child  who  ap- 
pealed from  earth  to  heaven,  and  she  sent  up  several  fervent 
petitions  in  his  behalf.  She  longed  desperately  to  help  him,  but 
she  was  wholly  powerless. 


100  ELLEN  LEVIS 

To  Fetzer  Hilda  was  a  wicked  woman;  no  other  explanation 
for  her  mistress's  behavior  had  ever  occurred  to  her.  Even  Ste- 
phen's patience  suggested  no  different  explanation. 

She  did  not  advance  far  into  the  hall.  Hilda  had  restrained 
herself  in  the  presence  of  Fickes,  the  chauffeur,  and  with  greater 
difficulty  before  her  guests,  and  the  postponement  of  the  expres- 
sion of  her  wrath  had  not  in  the  least  softened  her  heart.  It  had, 
on  the  contrary,  exaggerated  the  grievance  and  sharpened  the 
tongue  which  was  to  utter  her  wrongs. 

*'But  she  was  a  child!"  Fetzer  heard  Stephen  protest.  His 
voice  was  like  his  eyes,  childlike  in  its  earnestness.  It  was  bitter, 
indeed,  that  this  old  friendship  which  had  been  without  excep- 
tion the  happiest  in  his  life  was  now  finally  spoiled.  What  would 
Levis  think  of  him?  He  regretted  with  sickening  self-reproach 
his  call.  He  might  have  known  better;  now  he  could  never  see 
him  again,  he  hoped  that  it  might  never  be  necessary  to  see  him 
—  a  hope,  indeed,  which  was  aheady  granted. 

Hilda  accepted  no  apology. 

"Child!"  she  repeated.  "That  was  a  pose  to  attract.  How 
ridiculous  to  show  you  her  books !  She  did  n't  look  at  you  like  a 
child,  nor  you  at  her." 

For  a  moment  silence  prevailed.  Fetzer  meditated  advancing. 
But  Hilda  had  not  finished;  she  found  Stephen's  silence  far 
more  irritating  than  his  speech.  She  turned  fiercely  upon  him 
with  a  remark  which,  while  it  was  not  new,  was  uttered  with 
truly  original  ferocity. 

"You'd  hke  me  to  be  dead;  then  you  could  live  as  you  pleased 
on  my  money!" 

Fetzer  withdrew.  She  went  through  a  passageway  to  the  office 
where  again  Miss  Knowlton  and  Miss  Mac  Vane  waited. 

"I  guess  Doctor '11  be  out  soon." 

Neither  of  the  women  answered  —  sometimes  she  believed 
that  they  observed  nothing,  sometimes  she  believed  that  they 
knew  everything. 

After  loitering  for  about  ten  minutes  in  the  passage  she  again 
approached  the  library.  Now  Stephen  was  alone,  sitting  with  his 
back  to  the  door. 

"Miss  Knowlton  and  Miss  Mac  Vane  are  here.  Doctor."  She 
spoke  as  though  they  had  arrived  at  this  moment. 


ELLEN  LEVIS  101 

"Thank  you,"  said  Stephen,  without  turning.  Fetzer  saw  that 
though  his  head  was  bent  there  was  no  book  on  his  knee.  For  the 
thousandth  time  she  breathed  a  silent  petition  in  his  behalf.  The 
ways  of  the  Creator  were,  indeed,  past  all  finding  out. 

Stephen  sat  for  a  long  time  looking  down  at  his  clasped  hands. 
He  believed  that  his  life  was  at  times  in  danger,  but  he  did  not 
believe  that  a  committee  of  inquiry  could  find  proof  of  the  mad- 
ness whose  outbursts  were  reserved  for  him  alone.  It  was  a 
pleasant  prospect  for  a  European  journey! 


CHAPTER  XIII 

MATTHEW  COMES  HOME 

To  Millie  Konig  the  last  few  weeks  of  single  life  were  a  period  of 
intense  satisfaction.  Her  waiting  for  Matthew  and  matrimony 
had  seemed  long,  but  now,  at  last  happiness  and  prosperity  were 
at  hand.  It  was  very  unlikely  that  any  of  her  seven  sisters  would 
marry  so  well. 

.  Ji'oT  the  home  which  she  was  leaving  she  had  no  deep  affection. 
She  believed  herself  to  be  the  only  quiet  soul  in  a  noisy  brood, 
and  the  incessant  chattering  and  laughing  which  accompanied 
all  the  daily  tasks,  thu  crowded  kitchen,  the  shared  bedrooms, 
the  full  knowledge  of  one  another's  affairs,  offended  her.  She  dis- 
liked to  be  teased,  and  the  chief  form  of  wit  in  the  Konig  house- 
hold was  teasing.  She  had  loved  to  go  to  meeting  because  it  was 
quiet  and  she  could  sit  and  think  about  her  own  affairs,  and  she 
liked  Matthew  because  he  was  quiet. 

She  was  ambitious  and  her  future  offered  as  large  a  field  for 
advancement  as  she  could  conceive.  The  Levis  farm  was  in  poor 
condition,  but  the  land  was  fertile  and  the  buildings  were  solid. 
On  the  other  side  of  the  wood-crowned  ridge  ran  a  vein  of  lime- 
stone which  could  be  made  a  source  of  profit  —  Matthew  had 
told  her  long  ago  of  his  desire  to  develop  it,  together  with  many 
other  secret  wishes. 

"Five  years  of  careful  economy,"  said  Matthew  now.  "Then 
we  shall  not  need  to  travel  with  horses"  —  this  with  actual  as 
well  as  figurative  meaning. 

On  the  evening  of  his  father's  funeral  he  laid  before  Millie  his 
completed  plans.  He  came  to  the  door  of  the  farmhouse  and 
asked  her  to  walk  with  him  to  the  gate. 

"It's  all  over,  Millie." 

"Yes,"  said  Millie  with  a  becoming  sigh.  "I  was  there  this 
afternoon.  I  thought  your  Gran 'pop  laid  things  out  right  to  those 
of  us  that  are  left." 

Matthew  had  no  desire  to  discuss  his  grandfather's  sermon 
which  had  decently  omitted  many  things  that  might  have  been 


ELLEN  LEVIS  103 

said.  He  had  no  sense  of  triumph;  he  accepted  God's  will  when  it 
profited  him  as  he  accepted  it  when  it  sent  him  to  work  in  the 
Ephrata  stocking  factory.  His  mind  was  upon  Millie ;  in  the  twi- 
light he  put  his  arm  round  her  and  drew  her  close  to  him.  Her 
cheek  was  like  a  rose  petal  and  her  whole  body  breathed  fresh- 
ness and  health. 

"How  soon  could  you  get  married,  Millie.^" 

It  was  not  in  Millie's  nature  to  be  coy. 

"I'm  ready  now,"  she  answered  promptly.  "I  have  all  my 
things  this  long  time,  and  it 's  not  like  going  into  a  house  where 
there  is  nothing." 

"In  a  month,  then?" 

Millie  saw  no  reason  for  even  a  week's  delay.  An  intense  im- 
patience filled  her  soul. 

"Yes.  HowisEllen.^" 

Matthew  shook  his  head.  A  heavenly  providence  had  deliv- 
ered Ellen  into  improving  hands. 

"She  can't  accept  this.  It's  so  with  people  who  are  not  re- 
ligious." 

Millie  determined  to  show  herself  kind. 

"She  need  n't  think  that  she  will  have  it  too  hard.  Everything 
can  be  pretty  much  like  always.  I  think  we  should  even  put  away 
the  bedding  and  things  like  that  for  her.  I  should  n't  like  her  to 
say  that  I  used  what  should  be  for  her  Aussteir.'' 

Matthew  tightened  his  arm  round  this  thoughtful  creature. 
He  had  come  a  long,  hard  way  to  his  happiness,  but  it  promised 
to  be  worth  the  journey. 

The  next  day  Millie  counted  her  sheets  and  blankets  and  table- 
cloths and  her  many  pieced  quilts,  made  in  long  winter  after- 
noons to  an  accompaniment  of  steady  sisterly  chatter.  No  bride 
of  the  neighborhood  had  ever  had  so  fine  an  assortment. 

Matthew  lived  at  the  farmhouse.  He  slept  in  his  old  room  and 
ate  his  meals  with  a  quiet  Ellen  and  a  tearful  and  monosyllabic 
Mrs.  Sassaman.  At  other  times  he  was  at  his  work.  His  eyes 
shone  with  eagerness,  his  brow  was  furrowed  with  pleasant 
thinking.  He  could  have  embraced  the  trees  and  thrown  himself 
upon  the  soil  which  he  loved. 

Already,  though  the  farm  was  run  down  and  needed  all  that  he 
could  put  into  it,  he  looked  with  longing  eyes  upon  a  small  ad- 


104  ELLEN  LEVIS 

joining  property,  across  which  he  could  reach  the  highroad  di- 
rectly from  the  quarry  he  meant  to  open.  He  looked  down  upon  it 
from  the  woodland  one  August  afternoon.  The  undertaking  would 
be  inexpensive  and  the  profit  would  be  out  of  all  proportion  to 
the  small  outlay.  If  he  only  had  enough  money  to  begin !  Perhaps 
Grandfather  would  lend  it  to  him.  He  did  not  hke  to  go  to  Mil- 
lie's father,  would  not,  indeed,  though  success  was  certain.  That 
was  no  way  for  a  self-respecting  son-in-law  to  begin  married  life ! 

Then,  as  though  his  question  had  been  borne  aloft  by  the 
wind,  the  wind  returned  an  answer.  He  looked  at  the  nearest 
tree,  a  fine  oak  from  which  the  soft  whisper  came;  he  looked  at 
the  next  tree  which  was  equally  fine.  In  reality  the  plan  for  their 
own  destruction  was  not  breathed  by  the  trees,  but  originated  in 
a  suggestion  of  Milhe's,  made  long  ago  when  possession  of  them 
seemed  only  a  dream.  The  price  of  the  adjoining  fields  was  in  his 
hand! 

Ellen  and  Mrs.  Sassaman  cleaned  the  house  and  Ellen  packed 
away  her  father's  belongings,  realization  of  the  finality  of  death 
being  now  complete.  Once  she  asked  a  question. 

"Shall  we  leave  the  office  as  it  is,  Matthew.?" 

Matthew  blinked;  he  was  calculating  at  that  moment  the 
price  which  the  trees  would  bring. 

"I'll  ask  Millie  what  she  wants,"  said  he  at  last,  bringing  him- 
self to  consider  Ellen's  question.  "And  I'll  ask  Dr.  Wescoe 
whether  he  would  like  to  buy  the  medicines  and  the  books." 

"Not  the  books!"  Ellen  began  to  twist  her  hands  together  in 
the  most  excited  way. 

"Very  well!"  he  answered  impatiently.  "As  you  like." 

Mrs.  Sassaman  also  approached  with  a  question. 

"When,  then,  am  I  to  go?"  Her  large  face  was  pale  and  her 
hands  drooped  from  the  wrist  joints,  like  the  front  paws  of  a 
rabbit  sitting  upon  its  haunches.  She  might  have  been  asking 
for  the  date  of  her  execution. 

"I'm  going  to  be  married  on  Saturday  at  meeting,"  said 
Matthew. 

"Well,  I  guess  I'll  go  then  Saturday  morning." 

"You're  going  to  your  sister?"  asked  Matthew  kindly,  put- 
ting his  hand  into  his  pocket.  "I'll  pay  you  now  —  for  the  whole 
week,  though  it  is  n't  due  till  Monday." 


ELLEN  LEVIS  105 

Mrs.  Sassaman  did  not  hold  out  her  hand  and  Matthew  laid 
the  money  in  her  lap,  the  last  full  salary  he  would  hav^e  to  pay 
for  domestic  service.  Suddenly  he  was  amazed.  Mrs.  Sassaman 
rose  and  the  money  dropped  to  the  floor. 

"You're  doing  wrong,  Matthew,"  said  she  slowly.  "You  were 
always  such  a  headstrong  boy,  but  I  never  thought  you  would  be 
such  a  cruel  boy.  Religion  is  right,  so  far,  but  not  farther.'* 

Matthew  said  nothing,  but  went  out  the  door  and  down  the 
road  to  pay  a  last  visit  to  Millie.  Mrs.  Sassaman  did  not  make 
him  uncomfortable  even  for  a  moment  —  such  is  the  sustaining 
power  of  a  good  conscience.  He  supposed  that  she  was  alluding  to 
Ellen,  but  what  she  said  was  unimportant. 

On  Saturday  morning  he  told  Ellen  the  hour  of  his  wedding. 

"It  will  be  in  the  afternoon  in  the  Saal.  I  suppose  you  will 
hardly  come." 

"I  can't,  Matthew." 

"You  take  things  too  hard,  Ellen.  We've  got  to  live,  no  mat- 
ter what  happens!" 

"But  not  rejoice!"  said  Ellen  tragically  to  herself.  Then  she 
said  aloud,  "You'll  come  here  for  supper  before  you  go  away?" 

"We'll  go  to  her  folks  for  supper.  You  are  invited  also,  but  I 
said  I  did  n't  think  you  would  go.  We'll  come  here  later." 

"  You  're  going  away  for  a  trip?  "  asked  Ellen,  suddenly  alarmed. 
"I  don't  mean  for  a  long  trip,  but  for  a  little  journey?" 

"Of  course  not.  I  don't  approve  of  such  celebrations;  they're 
expensive  and  they  accomplish  nothing  but  the  spending  of 
money.  We  shall  come  home." 

"Home!"  repeated  Ellen  when  he  had  gone.  "Oh,  I  wash 
they  would  not  come  home!" 

She  flung  herself  into  the  arms  of  a  bonneted  Mrs.  Sassaman. 

"They're  coming  here  to-night!" 

Mrs.  Sassaman  wept  also. 

"Don't  cry,  Ellen!  You're  young  yet.  You  don't  have  it  as 
bad  as  I  who  have  lost  two  husbands.  The  thing  for  you  is  to 
marry  and  spite  them.  Marry  some  one  who  will  stand  up  for  you 
and  tell  Matthew  the  meaning.  That 's  the  thing  for  you  to  do." 

She  climbed  into  the  spring  wagon  beside  Calvin  and  was  gone. 

The  day  had  promised  to  be  fine,  but  at  nine  o'clock  a  soft 
rain  began  to  fall.  At  ten  o'clock  Matthew  came  downstairs 


106  ELLEN  LEVIS 

dressed  in  his  best  clothes  and  drove  away.  The  pleasant  courte- 
sies once  natural  were  forgotten  or  ignored  in  their  mutual  em- 
barrassment and  he  did  not  bid  his  sister  good-bye.  It  was  not 
altogether  pleasant  that  one's  wedding  day  should  be  rainy,  but 
the  fields  needed  rain  and  he  was  not  disturbed. 

Through  the  long  morning  Ellen  sat  idle.  She  could  not  bear 
to  be  in  the  house,  but  sat  on  the  porch,  a  lonely  and  mournful 
figure.  A  score  of  vague  plans  came  into  her  mind  only  to  be  re- 
jected. Could  Matthew  be  won  over.^  —  she  did  not  think  so. 
Could  her  grandfather  be  persuaded?  —  she  doubted  it.  Could 
they  be  compelled  by  law  to  give  her  what  was  right?  —  she  had 
no  friends  to  advise  her.  The  mysterious  visitor  to  whom  her 
father  had  meant  to  entrust  her  —  she  thought  of  him  with  de- 
spair. 

By  turns  grief  and  resentment  overwhelmed  her,  but  finally 
apathy  succeeded  both.  The  blow  which  she  had  received  seemed 
to  have  injured  her  beyond  recovery;  plans  were  useless  when 
all  earthly  hopes  could  be  so  quickly  dissolved. 

"I  may  die!"  said  she  and  found  in  that  a  dreary  consolation. 

At  dark  Matthew  brought  Millie  home  and  the  three  sat  for  a 
while  together  on  the  porch.  Ellen  had  been  afraid  that  she  might 
cry,  but  the  event  seemed  too  unreal  to  draw  tears  from  a  foun- 
tain so  nearly  exhausted.  Millie  rocked  rapidly  back  and  forth, 
for  once  as  loquacious  as  her  sisters.  She  stood  a  little  in  awe  of 
Ellen's  mind,  but  she  believed  that  she  was  making  a  favorable 
impression  upon  her.  She  was  nervous  and  excited  and  her  short 
sentences  were  not  always  completed. 

"I  have  n't  yet  been  in  your  house  except  last  month  when 
your  father  — "  Millie  feared  that  she  had  made  a  mistake. 

"Would  you  like  to  go  through  it  now?"  asked  Ellen,  un- 
moved by  Millie's  allusion. 

*' To-morrow  will  do  for  sight-seeing,"  said  Matthew  with 
heavy  facetiousness  unhke  him. 

"I  guess  it  will!"  laughed  Millie.  "It  seems  as  though  I'm  to 
be  here  a  long  time,  from  what  the  preacher  said!" 

When  the  clock  struck  nine,  Matthew  rose.  Calvin  had  at- 
tended to  the  stock,  Matthew  had  given  himself  a  whole  holiday, 
the  only  holiday  he  was  to  give  himself  deliberately  in  all  his  life. 
Millie  also  rose  abruptly. 


ELLEN  LEVIS  107 

"Are  you  going  to  bed,  Ellen?"  asked  Matthew. 

"Not  yet." 

"You'll  lock  the  doors?" 

"Yes." 

"Then  good-night." 

"Good-night,"  answered  Ellen. 

Ten  o'clock  struck  and  eleven  and  Ellen  sat  still.  Then  she 
went  in  and  advanced  slowly  toward  the  stairway.  With  her  foot 
on  the  lowest  step,  she  heard  Millie  laugh.  Grossly  offended,  she 
turned  and  went  into  her  father's  office  and  closed  the  door- 
Millie  had  asked  for  no  changes,  and  here  was  the  old  sofa  with 
its  worn  cushions,  a  desk,  a  chair,  and  a  little  table,  upon  it  a 
few  books,  a  pad  of  paper,  two  lead-pencils,  and  some  withered 
flowers  in  a  glass.  Ellen  lay  down  upon  the  sofa  as  though  it 
were  her  bier. 

It  was  part  of  Millie's  religion  to  have  kindly  feelings  toward 
all  mankind.  Finding  breakfast  on  the  table  in  the  morning,  she 
praised  Ellen  and  thanked  her  and  assured  her  that  she  would  be 
lazy  no  more. 

"We  can  plan  everything  so  that  neither  will  have  more  to  do 
than  the  other." 

It  was  now  Ellen  who  was  nervous. 

"Thank  you,"  said  she  in  a  tone  which  seemed  to  Millie  to  ex- 
press a  becoming  gratitude. 

Millie  was  sincerely  commiserative;  she  pitied  every  one  in  the 
world  who  was  not  Millie  Levis  —  except  Matthew  to  whom  she 
belonged. 

"I  never  had  a  chance  to  tell  you  how  sorry  I  am  for  you, 
Ellen,"  said  she,  looking  pleasantly  into  Ellen's  hea\'y  eyes. 
"But  we  must  remember  that  God  doeth  all  things  well." 


CHAPTER  XIV 

AMOS  VENTURES  INTO  THE  WORLD 

In  the  autumn  evenings  Grandfather  sat  beside  his  stove  in 
meditation.  It  was  against  his  principles  to  permit  himself  too 
high  a  degree  of  physical  comfort,  but  as  the  current  of  his  blood 
ran  less  swiftly  he  drew  unconsciously  closer  to  the  stove.  As  he 
had  often  sat  here  and  ordered  his  life,  so  he  was  ordering  now 
his  departure  from  life.  He  dreamed  sometimes  of  a  burial  such 
as  the  fathers  had  had,  at  midnight  under  the  light  of  torches, 
with  antiphonal  singing  and  solemn  tolling  of  bells,  and  with  a 
procession  of  the  Brotherhood  of  Zion  and  the  Sisterhood  of 
Spiritual  Virgins. 

Amos  was  at  the  pine  table,  now  correcting  the  papers  of  the 
children  in  his  school,  now  bent  over  his  Latin  manuscript.  It 
seemed  to  him  that  his  mind  became  less  active  and  that  the 
devil  tempted  him  to  dream  when  he  ought  to  be  at  work. 

To  Grandfather  there  had  been  in  the  universe  two  stable 
realities,  the  existence  of  a  wise  and  all-powerful  Creator  and  the 
correctness  of  the  Seventh-Day  Baptist  interpretation  of  the 
Creator's  mind  and  works.  Now  in  his  old  age  he  dwelt  with  in- 
creasing satisfaction  upon  a  third  reality,  the  divine  appoint- 
ment and  fitness  of  Amos,  on  account  of  his  faith  and  piety,  to 
interpret  both  Creator  and  theology.  He  thought,  as  the  weeks 
passed,  less  anxiously  about  Ellen,  ascribing  her  placability  to 
his  own  advice  and  to  her  better  mind,  rather  than  to  the  stern 
necessities  of  her  case.  She  would,  he  believed,  now  that  the  dan- 
gerous influence  of  her  father  was  removed,  "come  round." 

One  day  he  summoned  a  carpenter  and  went  with  him  over 
the  old  buildings,  measuring  and  inspecting.  Here  a  wall  needed 
strengthening,  here  a  chimney  rebuilding,  here  fresh  plaster 
should  replace  the  broken  mortar  of  clay  and  grass.  The  sum 
required  to  put  all  in  order  was  not  large. 

Sitting  drowsily  by  the  stove  Grandfather  peopled  the  quiet 
night  with  figures.  He  saw  Saron  filled;  he  saw  men  going  after 
prayer  to  work  in  the  fields  and  women  in  white  filing  in  solemn 


ELLEN  LEVIS  109 

procession  to  worship  at  midnight.  They  went  joyfully,  as  he  and 
Amos  went  sometimes  to  pray  in  the  Saal.  He  heard  above  his 
little  cottage  heavenly  songs  issuing  from  the  high  matin  room 
of  Saron. 

But  the  figures  in  his  dreams  were  not  those  of  departed  saints. 
The  face  of  the  speaker  in  the  pulpit  who  held  an  audience  en- 
thralled, not  alone  by  his  eloquence,  but  by  the  power  of  truth, 
was  not  that  of  Father  Friedsam,  but  of  Amos;  the  cowled  and 
robed  figure  which  was  followed  by  adoring  converts  was  that 
of  Amos;  the  religious  who  knelt  alone  in  the  Saal  at  midnight 
praying  for  his  people  was  Amos.  It  was  mediseval  and  strange, 
but  it  was  real  to  the  dreamer.  It  had  all  happened  once,  less  than 
two  hundred  years  ago  —  it  might,  if  it  pleased  God,  happen 
again. 

But  Amos,  alas !  had  come  to  doubt  his  own  strength,  had  come 
indeed  to  fear  his  own  thoughts.  As  he  bent  over  "The  Mystic 
Dove"  on  this  winter  evening  his  face  was  drawn,  the  fingers 
with  which  he  held  his  pen  were  icy.  He  was  trying  to  translate 
a  sentence  which  he  believed  praised  the  holy  mystery  of  the 
sacraments,  but  his  mind  was  not  upon  his  work,  and,  spoken  to 
suddenly,  he  started  as  guiltily  as  though  Grandfather  had 
looked  into  his  heart  and  detected  his  disquiet. 

*'Our  little  girl  is  learning  to  submit  herself,"  said  Grandfather 
contentedly.  "Matthew  tells  me  so.  That's  the  first  lesson 
learned  —  quiet.  She  is  like  the  noble  Sister  Anastasia  whose 
pride  was  softened.  Have  you  seen  Ellen  at  any  time.^" 

"Once,"  answered  Amos  without  lifting  his  head.  He  spoke 
indifferently  and  bent  more  closely  over  his  work,  as  though  he 
had  reached  an  important  paragraph.  It  was  the  acting  of  a  lie, 
for  he  thought  of  Ellen  in  school  and  at  home  and  especially  in 
the  long  evenings  when  it  was  supposed  that  his  sacred  task  oc- 
cupied his  mind.  He  had  been  thinking  of  her  when  Grandfather 
spoke;  for  her  benefit  he  was  making  a  strange  plan. 

Last  Sunday  afternoon  he  had  gone  for  a  walk.  Even  then  he 
had  not  been  quite  honest  with  himself,  for  he  had  pretended 
that  his  object  v\  as  exercise,  when  deep  in  his  heart  he  hugged  a 
hope  of  seeing  Ellen.  An  intense  natural  shyness  and  a  conscious- 
ness of  guilt  forbade  him  Matthew's  door.  It  was  unthinkable 
that  he  should  "go  to  see"  Ellen! 


110  ELLEN  LEVIS 

Making  a  long  detour  he  had  arrived  at  last  in  the  woodland 
back  of  the  Levis  house  and  there  waited  for  darkness  to  become 
complete,  when  he  intended  to  go  to  the  edge  of  the  woods  and 
look  down  upon  the  lighted  windows  and  perhaps  see  Ellen's 
shadow  moving  back  and  forth. 

The  November  evening  was  still  and  he  had  taken  only  a  few 
steps  into  the  woodland  when  he  heard  the  sound  of  crying. 
Ellen  herself  was  no  more  tender-hearted  and  he  at  once  moved 
forward  rapidly,  then  stood  still,  trying  to  decide  upon  the  direc- 
tion from  which  the  sound  came.  He  could  now  hear  nothing; 
perhaps  his  footsteps  on  the  dry  leaves  had  betrayed  his  ap- 
proach. Then  he  heard  the  sound  again  nearer  at  hand.  It  was 
not  the  whimper  of  a  trapped  animal,  it  was  the  smothered  sob- 
bing of  a  human  being.  He  went  forward  swiftly.  Then  again  he 
paused.  The  low  western  sun  cast  a  single  level  beam  through  the 
clouds;  the  light  fell  upon  Ellen,  a  mournful  figure  in  a  black 
shawl  upon  a  stump,  Ellen  alone  in  the  twilight,  Ellen  unrecon- 
ciled to  her  bereavement,  Ellen  changed  and  forlorn. 

*'It  is  I.  Can  I  help  you,  Ellen.^"  he  asked  breathlessly. 

Ellen  sprang  to  her  feet,  her  black  shawl  trailing. 

"Oh,  is  it  you?"  She  drew  a  long  breath  of  relief.  Amos  was 
negligible  —  she  had  thought  that  it  was  Matthew !  It  made  lit- 
tle difference  whether  Amos  observed  her  woes. 

"You  can  persuade  them  to  let  me  go  away,"  she  said  de- 
spairingly. "I  have  n't  anything  to  live  for,  I'm  all  alone."  Then 
she  recovered  herself.  "Please  forget  this.  No  one  can  do  any- 
thing." She  rubbed  her  eyes  furiously  with  a  wet  handkerchief 
and  pulled  her  shawl  round  her.  "I  had  n't  any  business  to  talk 
about  it." 

At  once  she  walked  rapidly  out  of  the  gloom  of  the  woods  into 
the  brighter  light  and  made  her  way,  somber  and  forlorn,  across 
the  fields. 

Amos  took  her  place  upon  the  broad  stump.  He  saw  her  reach 
the  kitchen  door,  he  saw  the  light  gleam.  It  was  possible  that 
Matthew  and  Millie  were  away  —  was  she  then  alone,  poor,  poor 
Ellen?  He  would  go  down  and  speak  to  her  further;  he  should  not 
have  let  her  go  uncomforted,  he  who  meditated  upon  religious 
matters,  who  translated  holy  books !  But  suppose  that  Matthew 
and  Millie  should  return,  Millie  with  her  sharp,  cunning  eyes! 


ELLEN  LEVIS  111 

Besides,  he  knew  that  he  could  not  help  Ellen,  she  would  not 
Hsten. 

Then,  the  devil  tempted  him.  Grandfather's  plan  for  her  was  a 
mistaken  one,  she  would  never  bind  herself  to  conventual  life.  In 
the  Normal  School  whither  he  had  gone  to  learn  elementary 
Latin  there  had  been  many  lady  teachers,  confirmed  in  single- 
ness, faithful  to  their  duties  and  to  their  various  denominations, 
and  useful  to  the  world  —  it  was  not  wrong  to  think  of  Ellen 
bound  to  education !  He  rose  and  went  home,  meaning  to  speak 
in  her  behalf. 

But  between  the  time  of  that  bold  intention  and  this  evening, 
misgivings  troubled  him.  If  he  were  listened  to  he  would  be  help- 
ing to  send  Ellen  into  the  world.  She  wished  to  go  farther  away 
than  the  Normal  School,  farther  away  than  Lancaster  or  Harris- 
burg,  and  about  the  safety  of  the  world  beyond  he  had  grave 
doubts.  She  might  even  go  to  New  York  where,  every  one  said, 
wickedness  was  rampant.  There  was  no  telling  where  she  might 
not  go ! 

Presently  a  solution  presented  itself.  It  was  possible  to  learn 
much  from  books;  he  had  gained  all  his  information  from  that 
source,  and  from  books  he  would  learn  about  the  present  con- 
dition of  the  world.  Before  speaking  to  his  uncle  he  would  ac- 
quaint himself  with  contemporary  writings  and  be  governed  by 
their  character.  In  Harrisburg  there  was  a  State  library  from 
which  he  occasionally  secured  books  by  mail,  and  he  had  some- 
time ago  announced  to  Grandfather  his  intention  to  apply  there 
in  person  for  a  new  volume.  At  Christmas,  when  school  closed 
for  a  week,  he  would  be  his  own  master.  When  he  had  come  to 
this  determination  his  mind  was  easier  and  he  was  able  to  pro- 
ceed with  his  translation. 

His  preparations  for  departure  consisted  of  earnest  prayer 
and  the  packing  of  a  frugal  lunch.  When  he  found  that  he  could 
conscientiously  ask  the  blessing  of  God  upon  his  undertaking  his 
spirits  rose.  As  for  the  material  preparations,  prices  in  city  res- 
taurants were  high  and  wastefulness  was  wicked. 

The  day  which  he  had  selected  dawned  bitter  cold;  the  fire  in 
the  cottage  did  not  burn  well  and  the  pinched  and  blue  counte- 
nance of  Grandfather  distressed  him.  But  Grandfather  would 
listen  to  no  sympathy. 


112  ELLEN  LEVIS 

"My  trials  are  small  beside  those  suffered  on  this  spot." 

The  landscape  showed  bleak  and  gray  in  the  dawn;  the  lighted 
windows  suggested  not  the  cheerfulness  of  evening  and  of  family 
gatherings,  but  unwilling  rising  in  cold  rooms,  the  breaking  of 
ice  in  pitcher  and  bowl,  the  torturing  operation  of  milking  with 
stiff  hands.  Wheels  creaked  over  the  frozen  snow,  and  horses 
puffed  like  chimneys.  Amos  was  not  warmly  dressed;  he  had 
never,  in  fact,  been  dressed  warmly  enough  to  meet  winter  storms. 
Having  climbed  into  the  trolley  car,  he  tried  to  restrain  his  tears 
while  circulation  returned  to  his  frost-bitten  fingers.  He  looked 
fully  the  part  of  a  shivering  Saint  Francis.  A  traveling  man, 
wrapped  in  a  fur-lined  coat,  and  cursing  inwardly  the  luck  which 
had  kept  him  overnight  in  the  village,  stared. 

"Who  is  he?"  he  asked  the  conductor;  but  the  conductor,  be- 
ing busy  with  his  fares,  made  no  reply. 

His  was  the  first  but  not  the  last  comment  upon  Amos  that 
day.  Entering  the  train  at  Lancaster  he  walked  the  length  of  the 
car  to  find  a  seat,  and  after  him  heads  turned.  Even  persons 
who  were  familiar  with  Lancaster  County's  strange  types  looked 
startled;  one  or  two  impressionable  women  shivered. 

"Do  you  suppose  he's  very  wise  or  very  stupid?"  asked  one 
woman  of  another. 

"He's  very  handsome." 

"Do  you  think  so?" 

"Yes,  he's  too  handsome." 

"I'll  warrant  he's  the  kind  of  a  crank  after  whom  women 
would  travel  in  droves.  Perhaps  we'll  have  a  new  sect." 

Amos  heard  no  comments.  He  sat  down  and  looked  at  the 
smooth  farmlands,  then  at  the  river  filled  with  floating  ice, 
then  upon  the  tall  stacks  and  chimneys  and  into  the  heart  of 
glowing  furnaces.  It  was  a  bewildering  world  to  which  he  was  an 
alien.  He  was  trained  to  be  interested  not  in  mechanical  opera- 
tions or  in  the  achievements  of  science,  but  in  the  operations 
of  the  human  soul.  A  famous  saint  had  put  into  words,  centuries 
before,  Grandfather  Milhausen's  teaching.  "Suppose  that  you 
had  subtiity  and  learning  enough  to  know  all  things,  that  you 
were  acquainted  with  all  languages,  the  courses  of  the  stars,  and 
all  the  rest  —  what  is  there  in  that  to  be  proud  of?  The  glory 
of  man  is  to  be  faithful  to  God." 


ELLEN  LEVIS  113 

Catching  a  glimpse  of  the  dome  of  the  Capitol  soon  after  he 
had  left  the  station,  he  walked  up  a  narrow  street  to  the  rising 
ground.  Now  that  he  was  here  he  would  not  confine  himself  to 
the  library,  but  would  look  about  —  this,  too,  might  be  a  part  of 
Ellen's  world!  It  was  nine  o'clock  and  the  sun  gave  a  small  meas- 
ure of  warmth.  Squirrels  ran  up  and  down  the  tree-trunks  and 
pigeons  wheeled  above  his  head.  Their  friendliness  with  the 
passers-by  pleased  him. 

Then,  abruptly,  pleasure  ended.  He  looked  not  down  at  the 
parked  street,  as  Ellen  had  looked  at  first,  but  up  at  two  groups 
of  statuary  newly  placed  on  each  side  of  the  main  entrance. 
Here,  in  broad  daylight,  fixed  eternally  and  shamefully  in  mar- 
ble, were  human  beings  without  clothes !  He  did  not  blush ;  his 
astonishment  and  incredulity  were  too  deep.  After  a  long  stare 
he  withdrew  his  gaze  embarrassed.  It  was  to  escape  the  glaring 
nudities  that  he  entered  the  bronze  doors,  on  which  were  repre- 
sented various  worthies  of  the  Commonwealth.  He  did  not 
smile  at  the  neatly  collared  gentlemen  whose  heads  protruded 
like  the  heads  of  turtles ;  he  found  them  vaguely  an  assurance  of 
the  stability  of  the  world. 

Once  inside,  he  felt  a  measure  of  confidence.  Upon  his  child- 
like mind  the  soaring  dome,  the  painted  walls  made  the  same 
impression  which  they  had  made  upon  the  mind  of  Ellen.  He 
looked  longest  at  the  lunettes  in  a  corridor  which  pictured  the 
early  sects  and  found  at  last  his  own.  How  beautiful  was  this 
quiet  place  and  how  intolerable  the  group  without!  Here,  in 
Moravian,  sounding  his  trombone  from  the  tower,  in  pious 
Quakeress  preaching  to  the  savage,  in  Wissahickon  mystic  at 
prayer  on  the  hillside,  was  nothing  to  hurt  Ellen. 

For  an  hour  he  wandered  about,  walking  on  marble  stairways 
and  thick  rugs  and  letting  his  astonished  vision  rest  on  masses 
of  color,  the  green  of  Penn's  rich  coat,  the  Admiral's  scarlet 
robe,  the  blue  sky.  He  had  not  known  that  such  colors  existed. 
Suddenly  he  apprehended  dimly  the  beauty  of  the  world,  of 
trees  and  streams  and  the  bodies  of  human  beings.  But  they 
were  all  an  obstacle  between  man  and  God! 

He  felt  with  sudden  depression  his  own  insignificance.  He  had 
seen  in  all  his  years  no  crowds  of  human  beings,  had  been  part  of 
no  large  body  of  men,  had  had  a  share  in  no  concerted  move- 


114  ELLEN  LEVIS 

merit.  He  knew  in  a  general  way  the  history  of  his  State,  but 
he  was  not  of  it;  he  taught  the  history  of  his  country,  but  felt 
no  thrill  at  sight  of  its  flag.  He  read  no  daily  paper,  and  in  his 
religious  weekly  all  the  news  of  the  world  was  censored  and 
emasculated. 

In  the  library  he  stood  most  astonished  and  confused.  Shelves 
upon  shelves  of  books,  hundreds  and  thousands  of  books!  He 
was  confounded  by  their  number  and  by  the  vastness  of  the 
world  which  they  represented ;  he  was  embarrassed  by  the  studi- 
ous silence;  he  was  frightened  by  the  cool  black  eyes  of  a  young 
woman  behind  the  desk.  To  gain  a  moment's  time,  he  stepped 
aside  to  look  at  an  old  map  and  at  a  framed  and  valuable  procla- 
mation offering  ten  thousand  dollars  for  the  arrest  of  the  assassin 
of  Abraham  Lincoln. 

At  last  he  summoned  sufficient  courage  to  ask  for  "The  Early 
Sects,"  and  was  told  that  it  was  at  present  out  of  the  library. 

"I  wanted  it  for  study,"  he  explained.  "I  have  sent  for  books 
from  here." 

*'If  you  will  leave  your  name  and  address  we'll  send  it  to 
you." 

As  he  wrote  his  name  on  a  card,  his  eye  fell  upon  a  row  of 
books  at  the  end  of  the  desk  whose  bright  bindings  marked 
them  as  the  modern  works  for  which  he  sought.  He  thought 
it  best  to  buy  copies  of  his  own;  he  was  not  a  rapid  reader 
and  he  wished  to  study  them  carefully. 

"May  I  copy  their  names .^" 

"Surely!" 

He  looked  at  the  titles  in  an  uncritical  spirit  and  took  them  as 
they  came.  The  volumes  belonged  to  the  "Thinker's  Library,"  a 
somewhat  poorly  bound,  carelessly  edited  series  of  English  nov- 
els and  translations  of  other  European  novels  and  tales.  It  was  a 
curious  list  which  he  transcribed  —  "Bertha  Garlan,"  "Russian 
Stories,"  "Esther  Waters." 

He  found  at  last  in  a  store,  where  he  had  to  thread  his  way 
among  women  buying  laces  and  handkerchiefs  and  table  linen,  a 
corner  where  books  were  sold.  The  first  two  volumes  on  his 
list  were  on  hand,  "Esther  Waters"  was  not  to  be  had,  but 
"Evelyn  Innes"  was  suggested  by  the  clerk  as  a  substitute. 
Then,  his  bundle  under  his  arm,  he  walked  out.  Now  that  his 


ELLEN  LEVIS  115 

business  was  attended  to,  he  would  satisfy  his  still  undulled 
curiosity.  It  seemed  to  him  that  the  gaze  of  every  passer-by 
sought  his,  and  he  was  uneasy  until  he  realized  that  his  glance 
sought  the  eye  of  every  passer-by.  This  fact  discovered,  he 
walked  on  looking  straight  ahead  and  holding  his  shoulders 
stiffly. 

He  came  at  last  to  the  street  with  the  park  in  the  center  run- 
ning from  the  Capitol  to  the  river.  There  stood  large  churches, 
and  seeing  a  few  women  enter  the  most  imposing,  he  entered 
also.  He  made  no  excuse  for  himself,  though  he  knew  that  his 
uncle  would  not  approve;  an  inspection  of  churches  seemed  a 
legitimate  part  of  his  expedition. 

When  with  a  single  astonished  glance  he  saw  that  the  few 
worshipers  were  kneeling,  he  knelt  also.  He  had  not  dreamed 
that  anywhere  but  in  the  Saal  men  went  to  pray  alone.  He 
prayed  now  for  the  Kloster  and  for  his  uncle  and  for  Ellen  — - 
poor  little  Ellen  whose  sobs  he  would  never  forget.  It  seemed 
to  him  that  God  spoke  to  him  and  told  him  that  it  would  be 
right  to  help  her  to  her  heart's  desire,  and  he  sighed  happily. 

Then  —  it  may  have  been  the  tinkle  of  beads  slipping  from 
finger  to  finger,  it  may  have  been  a  subtle  ecclesiastical  odor 
different  from  the  odor  of  the  Saal  —  he  felt  a  sudden  misgiv- 
ing. He  opened  his  eyes  slowly  and  looked  at  the  woman  kneel- 
ing near  by,  who  was  not  so  absorbed  in  her  devotions  that  she 
did  not  have  a  startled  eye  for  her  neighbor  whom  she  believed 
to  be  some  sort  of  very  holy  man.  Next  he  saw  the  stations  of  the 
cross  along  the  wall,  and  then  the  marble  altar  with  its  tiny, 
gleaming  lamp.  Whither,  oh,  whither  had  he  come? 

At  once  terrible  words  rushed  into  his  startled  mind  —  "pop- 
ish images,"  *' idolatry,"  "confessional."  He  rose  and  clutched 
his  package  and  went  out.  In  the  vestibule  he  saw  a  woman  per- 
forming what  he  took  to  be  a  slight  ablution  in  a  sort  of  basin 
—  it  removed  his  last  lingering  doubt.  He  fled,  and  the  door 
closed  noisily  behind  him,  disturbing  those  within. 

As  he  walked  weakly  toward  the  river,  he  realized  that  it  was 
not  altogether  emotion  which  had  exhausted  him,  but  partly 
hunger.  To  one  who  was  accustomed  to  the  damp  coldness  of  the 
Saal  a  meal  out  of  doors,  even  on  such  a  day  as  this,  was  tolera- 
ble and  he  sat  down  on  a  bench  near  the  spot  where  Ellen  and  her 


116  ELLEN  LEVIS 

father  had  paused  hand  in  hand  to  look  across  toward  Stephen's 
gray  house.  He,  too,  looked  at  it,  but  the  lives  lived  there  did  not 
come  within  his  experience  and  were  not  to  be  imagined. 

Wlien  his  lunch  was  eaten,  he  returned  to  the  station  to  wait 
for  his  train  and  sat  holding  his  package  of  books,  and  watching 
the  ever-changing  throng.  All  he  saw  had  a  bearing  upon  his 
errand,  and  he  tried  to  picture  Ellen  among  the  travelers  — 
not  Ellen  in  her  black  shawl,  but  Ellen  in  her  brown  coat  and 
tight-fitting  cap,  her  Christmas  gifts  in  her  hands,  all  smiles  and 
happiness.  His  day  in  the  world  had  brought  him  to  no  final 
decision;  Ellen's  future  still  waited  upon  his  reading. 

For  some  reason  unknown  to  him,  the  train  waited  for  a  long 
time  upon  a  siding  outside  the  city,  and  he  could  look  directly 
through  an  opening  in  a  high  fence  into  the  yard  of  an  iron  mill. 
Opposite  the  opening  stood  a  lofty  shed,  apparently  a  vast  store- 
house for  finished  products,  in  which  cranes  moved  like  gigantic 
men,  lifting  and  laying  down  masses  of  iron  and  loading  long 
girders  upon  cars.  He  watched,  as  he  sometimes  watched  the 
farmers  intent  upon  their  work,  the  men  who  manipulated  the 
enormous  machines,  and  the  men  who  came  and  went  in  the 
yard.  Simply  to  live  and  work  and  not  to  think,  what  happiness 
in  such  a  lot !  But  he  reproached  himself  sharply  for  desiring  the 
glory  of  the  moon  rather  than  the  glory  of  the  sun  which  was 
his.  He  had  chosen  the  better  part,  or  to  speak  exactly,  it  had 
been  chosen  for  him.  Let  him  be  grateful. 

He  entered  the  gate  of  the  Kloster  after  dark.  Grandfather 
had  lighted  the  brass  lamp  and  sat  by  the  stove  asleep.  On  the 
stove  were  several  pots  with  a  fragrant  steam  escaping  from 
under  their  lids.  As  Amos  laid  down  his  books  on  the  sill  out- 
side, his  conscience  reproached  him.  But  his  motive  was,  he 
reminded  himself,  excellent. 

Grandfather  went  early  to  bed  on  his  hard  cot  in  the  next 
room,  leaving  Amos  bending  over  the  manuscript  from  which 
he  had  been  separated  for  a  day,  and  charging  him  not  to  work 
too  late.  When  the  old  man's  light  breathing  could  be  heard, 
Amos  opened  the  door,  brought  in  his  precious  parcel  and  with 
shaking,  thrifty  hands  untied  the  hard  knot  with  which  it  was 
fastened.  He  selected  the  book  which  was  uppermost  and  laid 
the  others  in  the  drawer  of  his  table.  In  the  silence  of  the  night 


ELLEN  LEVIS  117 

he  began  to  study  the  world  into  which  he  was  to  launch  Ellen. 
Surely  none  of  these  authors  had  hitherto  been  read  in  a  stranger 
spot!  Close  to  the  little  cottage  on  one  side  crowded  the  graves 
of  the  dead,  above  it  on  the  other  rose  the  grim  old  buildings.  All 
spoke,  not  of  love,  either  good  or  evil,  nor  of  the  present,  nor  of 
life,  but  of  the  past  and  of  the  peace  of  death. 

The  book  he  had  selected  was  the  volume  of  Russian  stories. 
He  read  an  introductory  paragraph  which  stated  that  the  author 
gave  a  description  of  his  impressions  of  the  Russian-Japanese 
War,  an  event  as  dim  to  Amos  as  though  it  had  taken  place  in 
1904  B.C.  instead  of  1904  a.d.  He  was  disappointed  —  he  was 
not  interested  in  war!  But  having  begun  he  kept  on.  He  had 
thought  himself  a  slow  reader,  but  he  had  read  hitherto  only 
the  subtle  abstractions  of  mystic  writers,  pondering  as  he  went; 
he  had  never  had  before  him  such  texts  as  these. 

*' Horror  and  madness!"  The  opening  words  were  not  reas- 
suring. But  he  read  on. 

"I  felt  it  for  the  first  time  as  we  were  marching  along  the  road 
—  marching  incessantly  for  ten  hours  without  stopping,  never 
diminishing  our  step,  never  waiting  to  pick  up  those  who  had 
fallen,  but  leaving  them  to  the  enemy  that  was  moving  behind 
us  in  a  compact  mass." 

He  blinked  as  though  to  clear  his  vision;  then  his  pupils  moved 
back  and  forth,  back  and  forth. 

*'An  hour  passed,  but  the  multitude  still  moved  on,  and  the 
air  and  the  distant,  phantom-like  ranks  trembled  as  before. 
Again  the  burning  heat  pierced  my  body.  .  .  I  was  surrounded 
by  a  group  of  gray  people;  some  lying  motionless,  perhaps  dead; 
others  sitting  up  and  staring  vacantly.  Some  had  guns  and  re- 
sembled soldiers;  others  were  stripped  almost  naked,  and  the 
skin  on  their  bodies  was  so  livid  that  one  did  not  care  to  look  at 
it.  Not  far  from  me  some  one  was  lying  with  his  bared  back  up- 
turned. One  could  see  by  the  unconcerned  manner  in  which  he 
had  buried  his  face  in  the  sharp,  burning  sand,  by  the  whiteness 
of  the  palm  of  his  upturned  hand,  that  he  was  dead,  but  his  back 
was  as  red  as  if  he  were  alive.  And  I  saw  — " 

"What  is  this.f^"  whispered  Amos.  But  he  read  on  and  on  until 
headless  men  surrounded  him  and  a  sea  of  blood  seemed  rising  to 
engulf  him. 


118  ELLEN  LEVIS 

He  finished  with  a  dying  hght  and  a  body  aching  cruelly  with 
cold.  The  fire  had  gone  out ;  there  echoed  about  him  the  mysteri- 
ous crackling  sounds  of  a  bitter  night.  He  rose  and  stood  in  the 
darkness,  appalled  by  the  things  he  had  read.  Was  this  the  world 
into  which  he  had  thought  to  send  pure  and  lovely  Ellen? 

After  a  long  time  he  heard  his  uncle  sigh  in  his  sleep,  and  the 
tears  began  to  run  down  his  cheeks.  It  must  be  almost  morning; 
he  would  wrap  himself  in  his  coat  and  await  the  striking  of  the 
hour,  then,  if  it  was  not  too  early  to  disturb  his  uncle,  he  would 
make  up  the  fire.  Moreover,  he  would  make  it  up  with  these 
hideous  writings  for  which  he  had  spent  good  money. 

But  deliberation  brought  better  counsel  —  Ellen  would  have 
no  encounter  with  war !  Besides,  it  was  a  Russian  story  and  Ellen 
did  not  mean  to  go  to  Russia.  He  would  read  the  other  books. 

The  next  evening  he  did  not  wait  until  Grandfather  had  gone 
to  bed;  but  laid  his  book  inside  the  manuscript  of  "The  Mystic 
Dove"  and  began.  A  great  deal  of  "Evelyn  Innes"  he  did  not 
understand,  but  he  understood  enough.  He  read  like  a  child  for 
the  story,  all  else  escaping  his  immature  attention.  The  tech- 
nique of  music  was  an  uncharted  sea;  the  ambitions  of  Mr.  Innes 
he  did  not  comprehend ;  he  had  never  seen  an  opera,  nor  was  he 
able  to  picture  one.  But  he  saw  clearly  what  had  happened  to 
Evelyn.  A  cold  perspiration  broke  out  upon  him.  It  was  well  for 
Ellen  that  he  had  set  out  to  discover  the  world ! 

Then  he  was  guilty  of  a  curious  and  natural  inconsistency. 
He  concluded  that  it  was  his  duty  to  acquaint  himself  further 
with  wickedness,  so  that  he  might  the  better  resist  it.  When  he 
had  finished  "Evelyn,"  he  returned  to  the  book  of  Russian  sto- 
ries, laying  it,  too,  between  the  pages  of  "The  Mystic  Dove." 
He  saw  a  dark  river  which  carried  on  its  strong  current  a  raft, 
and  understood  that  a  young  man,  a  pious  Christian,  worked  at 
the  stern  and  watched  his  wife  made  much  of  in  a  shameful 
way  by  his  own  father  in  the  bow. 

But  still  he  read  on.  "The  Raft"  was  short;  midnight  was 
still  far  away;  he  opened  the  third  book.  Again  the  accident  of 
his  choice  was  unfortunate.  The  story  was  simply  and  plainly 
told.  Bertha  Garlan,  widowed  and  with  a  little  child,  sought  out, 
under  pressure  of  irresistible  desire  for  affection,  an  old  sweet- 
heart who  had  attained  fame  and  who  lived  grossly,  and  had 


ELLEN  LEVIS  119 

with  him  a  brief  Haison.  Her  passion  and  her  shame  were  pic- 
tured with  equal  skill  —  it  was  a  moving  tale,  and  it  pointed 
as  bitter  a  lesson  as  the  pen  of  moralist  could  present. 

It  was  not  strange  that  when  he  tried  to  work  at  his  "Mystic 
Dove,"  the  language  proved  dull  and  meaningless.  He  ceased  to 
translate  and  began  to  walk  about,  traveling  over  the  frozen 
roads  at  night  like  one  condemned  to  wander  for  his  sins.  The 
world  was  a  whirlpool  of  crime  in  which  each  hour  betrayed  and 
murdered  thousands  were  sucked  down  to  destruction.  His  uncle 
had  been  right. 

At  last  he  began  to  think  of  another  way  to  help  Ellen.  His 
uncle  believed  and  had  taught  him  that  a  man*s  first  concern 
should  be  the  eternal  safety  of  his  own  soul.  Might  there  not  be 
a  higher  duty.^  Speculating,  he  felt  his  cheeks  burn,  his  heart 
throb  quickly. 


CHAPTER  XV 

ELLEN  IS  OFFERED  A  WAY  OUT 

Life  in  the  Levis  house,  tolerable  during  the  remaining  weeks  of 
the  summer  and  early  fall  when  there  was  much  to  be  done  out 
of  doors,  assumed  a  more  complex  character  when  it  was  con- 
fined entirely  to  the  kitchen.  Millie  had  believed  that  she  desired 
escape  from  home  partly  for  the  sake  of  freedom  from  continual 
chattering;  apparently,  however,  it  was  merely  the  silence  of 
others  which  she  desired.  She  now  became  loquacious ;  Ellen,  she 
discovered  with  amusement,  knew  nothing;  that  is,  she  knew 
nothing  of  the  private  affairs  of  her  neighbors,  of  strange  old 
scandals,  of  recent  deeds  of  foolishness  and  sin.  Millie  knew 
stories  about  all  the  people  on  the  surrounding  farms,  about 
all  the  people  along  the  road  to  the  Kloster;  indeed,  about  the 
ancient  inhabitants  of  the  Kloster  itself,  those  holy  souls  who 
had  given  up  all  the  pleasures  of  the  world  for  the  sake  of  sal- 
vation. She  described  in  detail  the  misdeeds  of  Brother  Reith, 
who  in  the  absence  of  his  wife  in  the  asylum  was  a  rake  of  the 
first  order.  She  had  even  a  story  about  Mrs.  Sassaman  —  did 
not  Ellen  know  that!  Millie  laughed.  Such  proud  aloofness  as 
that  of  the  Levises  must  have  made  life  very  dull. 

*'I  don't  believe  that  about  Mrs.  Sassaman,"  answered  Ellen 
soberly.  "My  father  would  not  have  had  her  here  to  take  care  of 
us  if  she  was  not  a  good  woman." 

"I  don't  want  to  say  anything  against  your  father,  but  he  had 
very  free  ideas." 

*'Not  so  free  as  that." 

"Don't  you  believe  that  I  tell  you  the  truth?"  demanded 
Millie. 

"You  must  be  mistaken."  Ellen  was  pale  and  offended,  but 
she  was  determined  to  give  no  offense. 

On  her  first  free  afternoon  she  went  to  her  room  and  opened 
her  books.  She  remembered  all  that  she  had  learned  and  it  was 
still  not  too  late  to  be  educated.  In  the  evening  she  heard  Millie 
complain  to  Matthew  of  loneliness,  and  the  next  afternoon  she 
took  her  books  into  the  kitchen  where  the  sight  of  them  proved 


ELLEN  LEVIS  121 

irritating.  Millie  stood  no  longer  in  awe  of  her  superior  education; 
she  hated  it;  it  seemed,  in  some  dim,  ominous,  and  inexplicable 
fashion,  to  threaten  her. 

"Matthew  thinks  learning  is  unnecessary  beyond  what  we 
need  for  our  every-day  lives." 

Ellen  made  no  answer.  Presently  Millie  came  to  believe  that 
her  growing  annoyance  with  Ellen  and  her  ways  sprang  from 
anxiety  about  her  soul. 

*'I  can't  be  here  with  you  all  the  time  without  reminding  you 
to  make  your  peace  with  God." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Ellen  shortly. 

To  Matthew  life  was  intensely  satisfactory.  Along  with  love 
for  the  land  he  had  been  endowed  with  a  farmer's  good  judgment. 
The  early  Pennsylvania  Germans  had  selected  with  unerring  in- 
stinct the  thickly  wooded  limestone  country,  leaving  to  their 
Scotch-Irish  neighbors  the  poorer  and  more  easily  cultivated  soil. 
To  Matthew  it  seemed  that  his  deep  fields  had  qualities  which 
were  almost  human;  they  looked  to  him  for  f)roper  cultivation 
and  nourishment  as  they  looked  to  God  for  rain. 

His  labors  were  interrupted  only  by  the  time  necessary  for 
meals  and  sleep.  When  winter  came,  the  rebuilding  of  the  fences 
occupied  him  whenever  it  was  possible  to  be  out  of  doors.  On 
snowy  and  rainy  days  he  worked  in  the  barn,  repairing  par- 
titions, mending  harness,  and  planning  for  the  future.  He  wrote 
down  in  a  notebook  all  his  plans;  he  drew  a  map  of  the  farm  and 
hung  it  on  the  wall;  he  dreamed  and  meditated  about  springing 
corn  and  golden  wheat.  Mind  and  body  were  at  rest,  and  all  was 
as  it  should  be  in  a  world  w^hich  had  hitherto  been  trying. 

When  Ellen  appeared  one  afternoon  in  December  in  the  barn 
chamber  to  make  once  more  her  foolish  request  about  school,  he 
answered  her  by  commending  her  for  her  good  behavior.  He 
seemed  to  himself  to  be  at  least  twenty  years  older  than  Ellen  in 
experience  and  wisdom. 

"Millie  and  I  were  saying  yesterday  how  well  you  accommo- 
dated yourself  to  life  as  it  is.  It  will  soon  be  even  better." 

But  Ellen  had  not  come  to  hear  compliments  or  to  interpret 
cryptic  remarks. 

"Do  you  mean  I  can't  go.^" 

"  Soon  you  won't  want  to  go.'* 


122  ELLEN  LEVIS 

"I  shall  always  want  to  go,"  insisted  unreasonable  Ellen. 

She  did  not  return  to  the  house.  A  week  of  clear  weather  had 
ended;  there  was  a  lowering  sky  and  a  cold  damp  wind  which 
gave  warning  that  bad  weather  was  at  hand.  She  walked  a  long 
distance  on  the  soft  country  road,  and  then  struck  across  the 
fields,  meaning  to  return  through  the  woods  which  seemed  to 
promise  temporary  peace  of  mind.  She  was  aware  as  she  ap- 
proached her  favorite  seat  that  it  was  occupied  and  she  was  irri- 
tated when  she  recognized  the  occupant.  Amos  was  young  and 
strong,  yet  he  was  content  to  live  in  the  past,  to  earn  a  pittance, 
never  to  see  the  world  or  to  advance. 

But  before  the  ravaged  face  which  he  lifted,  no  one  could  long 
be  angry.  He  seemed  to  have  lost  many  pounds  which  he  could 
ill  spare;  his  clothes  were  too  large,  his  hair  was  much  too  long, 
and  he  wore  to  Ellen's  startled  gaze  a  look  so  unworldly  as  to  be 
almost  imbecile.  Her  heart  pitied  him,  while  her  mind  was  filled 
with  a  sharp  repulsion. 

Poor  Amos's  horror  of  the  world  as  he  found  it  in  "  Bertha 
Garlan"  and  "Evelyn  Innes"  had  changed  to  an  unspeakably 
shocking  desire  to  know  still  more  about  it.  The  temptation  was 
of  the  devil  —  that  he  well  knew  —  and  he  was  resisting  it  with 
all  the  strength  that  was  in  him.  He  was  tempted,  not  to  go  into 
the  world,  but  to  take  more  of  it  into  the  Kloster  in  the  form  of 
books,  to  read  and  read  and  thus  lose  himself  and  forget  his  self- 
reproach,  his  despair,  and  a  new  and  wild  desire. 

When  Ellen  spoke  he  stared  like  a  man  in  hiding  come  upon 
by  the  enemy.  Her  brisk  walk  had  made  her  cheeks  glow,  and 
her  commiseration  for  Amos  gave  a  deeper  color  to  her  eyes. 
Like  Millie  she  breathed  youth  and  freshness,  but  she  had  in 
place  of  Millie's  empty  beauty  an  eager  vitality  of  mind  and 
body.  You  could  be  with  Millie  and  forget  her  —  you  could  never 
forget  Ellen.  Her  spirit  had  been  for  a  while  in  echpse,  but  it 
could  not  continue  thus.  Amos  could  not  analyze  her  charm,  but 
he  felt  its  least  emanation. 

*'I  have  n't  seen  you  for  a  long  time.  Are  n't  you  well?" 

"Yes,"  he  answered  faintly. 

"And  Grandfather.?" 

Amos  seemed  not  to  have  heard.  He  rose  abruptly  and  ap- 
proached Ellen,  his  hands  clasped  before  him,  his  body  trem- 


ELLEN  LEVIS  123 

bling.  His  cheek-bones  seemed  to  press  against  the  skin,  his  gray- 
eyes  to  have  turned  black.  He  saw  not  a  helpless  creature  who 
needed  his  succor,  but  a  gleaming  light  in  darkness,  a  refuge  in 
deep  trouble,  a  rock  to  which  he  could  cling. 

"I've  been  thinking  so  much  about  you,  Ellen,  and  I've  been 
trying  to  help  you.  I  thought  once  I  would  ask  Uncle  to  let 
you  go  away.  But  I  can't  make  my  conscience  agree  to  such  a 
plan.  I  can't  for  a  good  reason."  He  laid  his  hand  across  his  eyes. 
At  this  moment  the  world  had  become  wholly  unattractive;  it 
offered  no  invitation  to  further  acquaintance;  he  saw  headless 
figures,  heard  men  offering  illicit  love.  "But  I  could  take  you 
away  from  where  you  are,  Ellen." 

"How.^^"  asked  Ellen  stupidly. 

"You  could  come  to  me." 

"To  you,"  she  repeated,  more  mystified  than  before. 

Then  a  bright,  tingling  flush  mounted  to  her  cheek.  She  saw 
the  expression  in  his  eyes,  and  recognized  its  tenderness. 

He  made  his  meaning  clearer. 

"If  you  were  married  you  would  be  freer." 

She  took  a  step  backward  and  rested  her  shoulder  against  the 
trunk  of  a  tree.  The  act  indicated  not  fear,  but  a  desire  for  sup- 
port. The  keenest  of  all  her  startled  sensations  was  curiosity. 
What  was  the  motive  for  this  amazing  offer?  Surely  not  love  as 
she  understood  love !  Did  he  mean  to  sacrifice  himself  and  all  his 
plans  to  make  her  comfortable?  He  didn't  seem  ridiculous;  he 
seemed  incredible. 

"But  you  were  n't  to  marry!" 

"I'm  my  own  master,"  said  he  with  dignity.  "I  must  decide 
what  is  best.  I'm  the  only  one  who  can  decide."  His  trembling 
became  more  violent.  "I  sometimes  sit  here  in  the  evening  and 
look  down  and  think  how  happy  you  and  I  could  be  in  such  a 
house  together.  I  think  of  it  day  and  night;  there  is  n't  any  rest 
for  me." 

A  succession  of  images  passed  rapidly  through  Ellen's  mind, 
herself  in  Amos's  arms  as  Millie  stood  in  Matthew's  embrace  — 
shameless  Millie !  —  her  father's  keen  face,  the  face  of  his  friend 
who  had  somewhat  resembled  him,  the  dim  Saal  with  its  heavy 
air,  its  pale  light,  its  stolid  worshipers. 

"Oh,  it  could  n't  be!" 


124  ELLEN  LEVIS 

Silence  answered  like  the  silence  which  follows  an  execution. 

"I'm  not  worthy  of  such  an  ojffer,"  said  Ellen,  suddenly 
wretched.  "I'm  nothing;  I  know  nothing.  I'm  hasty  and  bitter 
and  hateful." 

"You  are  worthy!"  protested  Amos.  The  language  of  the 
stories  he  had  been  reading,  much  as  he  loathed  them,  helped 
him  to  find  words.  He  pleaded  with  her,  not  for  her  sake  but  for 
his  own,  that  she  would  save  him  from  despair.  "There  isn't 
any  one  like  you.  You  grow  more  beautiful  each  day.  I  was  in 
Harrisburg,  and  there  I  sat  in  the  station  and  watched  the  people 
come  and  go,  especially  the  young  girls,  and  there  was  no  one 
who  carried  her  head  so  high  and  who  had  such  deep,  deep  eyes, 
like  a  dark  night,  Ellen,  when  the  sky  is  very  clear  and  soft. 
There 's  no  one  round  here  with  a  mind  like  yours.  I  'm  not  old- 
fashioned;  I  understand  that  it  is  the  day  of  greater  liberty.  I'll 
let  you  judge  and  decide  in  everything.  Don't  say  you  are  n't 
worthy;  that  is  n't  true!" 

Ellen  looked  down  at  the  ground.  Praise  like  this  was  new  and 
not  unwelcome,  even  though  it  came  from  the  lips  of  so  strange  a 
lover. 

"If  you  would  come  to  me,  I  believe  the  peace  of  God  would 
come  to  you." 

Now  Ellen  pressed  her  whole  body  against  the  tree,  so  as  to 
get  farther  away.  The  peace  of  God!  That  was  not  what  she 
longed  for. 

"You're  mistaken  in  me,"  said  she.  "There's  only  one  thing  I 
want  and  that  is  to  learn.  I  'm  grateful  to  you,  and  I  shall  always 
think  kindly  of  you;  you  are  my  best  friend,  but  I  don't  wish  to 
marry  any  one." 

"It  is  God's  holy  ordinance,"  said  Amos  thickly.  "It  saves 
from  gross  sin.  Outside  its  bonds  men  and  women  burn  with  sin- 
ful passion.  Have  I  made  you  afraid  of  me,  Ellen .f^  I  have  loved 
you  since  you  came  a  little  child  into  my  school,  and  indeed,  be- 
fore that." 

Into  the  minds  of  both  came  the  scene  enacted  on  this  spot, 
the  childish  arms  flung  out,  the  kiss  given  and  taken. 

"Oh,  I  can't!"  cried  Ellen.  "I'm  sorry  for  you.  Do  put  this 
out  of  your  mind." 

"I  don't  wish  to  put  it  out  of  my  mind.  But  I'll  not  trouble 


ELLEN  LEVIS  125 

you  by  speaking  again.  If  you  need  help  that  I  can  give,  you  have 
only  to  ask.  Promise  me  you  will  remember  that!" 

"I'll  promise."  She  looked  suddenly  over  her  shoulder.  Mil- 
lie's eyes  were  keen  and  cruel;  her  mind  was  suspicious;  she  had 
related  to  Ellen  a  score  of  clandestine  meetings,  spied  upon  and 
reported  to  the  confusion  of  lovers.  "I  must  go  home!"  said  she, 
moving  away.  "Don't  come  this  way  too  often!" 

"I'll  do  whatever  you  wish,"  promised  Amos.  "You  don't 
have  any  ill-feeling  toward  me,  Ellen,  I  hope?" 

"No!"  said  Ellen.  She  flung  back  a  crumb  of  comfort.  "I  told 
you  you  were  the  only  friend  I  had  in  this  world!" 

It  was  four  o'clock  when  she  opened  the  kitchen  door.  Mat- 
thew and  Millie  stood  by  the  table  together,  his  arm  across  her 
shoulders.  They  had  driven  together  to  the  store  in  the  village 
and  their  cheeks  glowed. 

"Well,  Sister.?"  said  Matthew. 

Ellen  heard  with  wonder  the  unusual  salutation.  What  had 
come  over  Matthew?  Her  own  cheeks  still  burned.  Subcon- 
sciously Millie  noted  her  color  and  her  excited  eyes.  But  Millie 
was  occupied  with  her  own  emotions.  She  laughed  in  her  sharp, 
detached  way  and  pushed  Matthew  from  her.  He  went  smiling, 
and  when  the  door  was  shut,  she  laughed  again. 

"See  what  I've  bought!"  she  cried,  her  hands  slipping  the 
cords  from  her  parcels.  "He  said  this  was  the  time  to  spend." 
There  appeared  white,  delicate  muslins  and  yards  of  lace  and 
ribbons  and  tiny  patterns.  "See!  Aren't  they  beautiful?  He 
thinks  you  are  every  day  a  little  less  self -centered,  Ellen,  and  it 
is  a  good  thing,  for  you  will  soon  be  certainly  needed.  Are  n't 
you  glad  you  did  n't  go  to  school?" 


CHAPTER  XVI 

ELLEN  SOLVES  HER  PROBLEM 

The  spectacle  of  complete  happiness  is  so  rare  that  it  is  valuable 
as  a  phenomenon,  even  when  its  causes  are  not  wholly  commend- 
able. A  queen  upon  her  throne  who  knows  no  threatening  usurper 
and  has  never  trembled  at  the  voice  of  reforming  democracy 
could  have  been  no  more  confident  of  herself  and  her  position 
than  Millie.  She  was  beautiful  —  indeed,  she  had  long  since  de- 
cided correctly  that  none  of  her  acquaintances  was  so  pretty. 
She  was  prosperous,  she  was  a  good  Christian,  she  was  fulfilling 
the  most  honorable  function  of  her  sex. 

As  a  prima  donna  who  has  sung  gloriously  gathers  the  roses  of 
her  admirers,  she  gathered  to  her  bosom  as  her  due  the  affection- 
ate care  of  Matthew,  the  interest  of  her  mother  and  sisters,  and 
the  approval  of  Grandfather  Milhausen.  She  gathered  also  the  ser- 
vices of  Ellen,  given  willingly  and  with  a  virginal  awe.  She  laughed 
at  Ellen's  innocence  and  extended  her  knowledge  in  new  directions. 

Ellen  did  not  consider  her  work  drudgery,  though  she  did  all 
that  she  and  Mrs.  Sassaman  had  done  together  and  all  that  she 
and  Millie  had  done  together.  It  was  right  that  Millie  should  be 
taken  care  of,  and  Ellen  was  too  inexperienced  to  know  that  no 
young  woman  in  that  hard-working  and  healthy  community 
had  ever  expected  such  tender  indulgence. 

Late  in  February  occurred  a  regrettable  incident  in  a  peaceful 
life.  Matthew's  correspondence  had  increased,  and  Ellen,  who 
fetched  the  mail  from  the  box  at  the  end  of  the  lane,  found  many 
pamphlets  with  the  words  "State  College"  on  the  corner  of  the 
envelope.  Matthew,  she  thought,  would  not  care  for  them;  the 
senders  were  wasting  paper  and  postage  and  pains. 

But  Matthew  did  care  for  them.  At  the  end  of  a  day  which 
Ellen  had  found  unusually  hard,  he  mentioned  that  he  was  going 
away  for  two  weeks.  She  looked  at  him  astonished;  Millie,  she 
saw,  was  aware  of  his  intention.  "Where  are  you  going?" 

"State  College  is  to  give  a  special  course  in  the  treatment  of 
soils.  Many  farmers  will  attend.  I  don't  know  whether  they  have 
anything  really  valuable  to  teach,  but  I'm  going  to  see." 


ELLEN  LEVIS  127 

Ellen  laid  down  her  spoon,  which  fell,  not  upon  the  saucer  as 
she  intended,  but  into  the  cup,  splashing  the  clean  cloth. 

"Well,  Ellen!"  cried  Millie. 

"You're  going  to  school,  then,  Matthew!  Surely  you'll  let  me 
go  in  the  fall.  You've  changed  your  mind  about  education!" 

Matthew  frowned.  It  seemed  to  him  that  Ellen  thought  she 
had  him  in  a  trap.  "This  is  different." 

"No,  it  is  n't  different!" 

"This  has  to  do  with  soils  and  the  production  of  food  for  the 
human  race.  It's  not  idle  learning." 

"Mine  would  not  be  idle  learning.  You're  not  fair.  You're 
cheating  me  out  of  what  should  be  mine  and  taking  it  yourself!" 

On  the  other  side  of  the  table  Millie  lifted  a  reproving  face.  If 
she  had  been  a  little  more  sophisticated,  she  would  have  con- 
trived to  faint  or  to  have  hysterics. 

"It  is  n't  safe  for  me  to  hear  such  discussions,  Ellen.  You 
should  know  better  than  to  try  to  quarrel  now!" 

Matthew  looked  at  Millie  in  alarm.  There  was  some  ground 
for  Ellen's  resentment,  but  her  heart  was  wrong,  her  demands 
were  wrong,  her  carelessness  of  Millie's  health  was  most  wrong 
of  all.  He  silenced  her  roughly  and  effectively.  "Can't  you  cut 
it  out,  Ellen?  Especially  under  these  circumstances.^" 

Millie's  convalescence  after  the  birth  of  her  baby  was,  as  was 
to  be  expected,  a  slow  and  luxurious  process.  Her  mother,  an  in- 
mate of  the  Levis  house  for  a  month,  scolded,  the  doctor  admon- 
ished, but  she  lay  at  ease,  her  young  prince  on  her  arm.  When  her 
mother  departed,  protesting  that  only  pity  for  Ellen  had  kept  her 
so  long,  Millie  took  jealous  care  of  the  baby.  She  sat  day  after 
day  in  the  kitchen  with  him  asleep  in  her  arms,  being  unwilling 
to  trust  the  pleasant  June  air.  She  had  been  slow  to  forgive  what 
she  chose  to  consider  a  wanton  indifference  to  her  health,  on 
Ellen's  part,  but  that  seemed  now  to  be  forgotten. 

"Next  time  I'll  be  up  sooner,"  she  promised  sweetly. 

Ellen  made  no  answer,  having  learned  at  last  to  hold  her 
tongue.  Her  body  ached  and  her  soul  quivered.  If  Millie  had  been 
at  all  clever,  she  would  have  assigned  to  her  some  of  the  care  of 
little  Matthew  even  in  addition  to  her  own  work,  but  Millie  was 
not  clever. 

Late  in  September  Grandfather  Milhausen  came  one  Sunday 


128  ELLEN  LEVIS 

evening  to  see  his  great-grandchild.  He  and  a  nervous  and  un- 
wiUing  Amos  walked  pilgrimwise  along  the  road  and  at  the  en- 
trance to  the  lane  separated,  Amos  going  to  the  next  farmhouse 
to  attend  to  an  errand.  Poor  Amos  was  no  happier,  and  the  few 
hours  of  rest  which  he  took  in  one  of  the  cells  in  Saron  had  made 
him  no  stouter.  His  abihty  to  concentrate  his  mind  upon  ab- 
stractions seemed  to  be  destroyed,  and  outside  of  school  hours 
he  had  no  occupation.  Grandfather  found  Millie  in  the  kitchen 
with  her  baby.  He  laid  his  hand  in  blessing  upon  the  little 
head  and  his  eyes  gleamed.  Here  was  an  earnest  for  the  future; 
this  child  might  live  to  complete  the  restoration  of  the  Kloster 
which  his  elders  were  to  begin. 

"And  where  is  Ellen? "  he  asked  with  a  sigh.  Ellen  had  not  yet 
"come  round";  it  was  now  more  than  three  years  since  she  had 
run  away  so  incontinently  from  the  Saal  and  she  had  never 
returned. 

"She  went  for  a  walk,"  explained  Millie.  "She's  a  great  one  to 
go  off  alone,  and  I  don't  like  it.  It  does  n't  look  well." 

Matthew  moved  uneasily  in  his  chair.  It  was  natural  for  Mil- 
lie to  express  to  him  disapproval  of  Ellen's  ways,  but  he  did  not 
like  her  to  complain  to  others. 

"I'm  sure  that  Ellen  does  no  harm." 

"I'm  sure  of  that  also.  But  it  looks  as  though  she  wanted  to 
be  away  from  us.  She  — " 

The  opening  of  the  door  interrupted  Millie's  sentence.  It  was 
plain  to  Ellen  entering  that  they  had  been  discussing  her  — 
why,  otherwise,  should  they  all  look  so  self-conscious.^  Hearing 
a  sound  behind  her,  she  glanced  nervously  over  her  shoulder,  to 
find  that  Amos  had  come  round  the  other  corner  of  the  house  and 
was  close  at  her  heels.  It  had  been  a  day  of  heavy  depression  of 
spirit  and  of  sharp  irritability  when  she  had  kept  silence  with 
difficulty.  Her  eyes  met  first  of  all  Millie's,  in  which  she  saw  a 
startled  and  amused  curiosity.  Amos  had  with  all  the  brethren  a 
reputation  for  immaculate  behavior,  but  to  Millie  no  one  was 
immaculate. 

"Where  have  you  two  been.?"  she  asked  gayly.  "Walking  to- 
gether.?" 

In  her  intense  desire  to  turn  attention  from  herself,  Ellen 
uttered  she  knew  not  what. 


ELLEN  LEVIS  129 

"We  have  a  nice  baby  here,  have  n't  we,  Grandfather?" 

MilHe  was  not  to  be  turned  aside  even  by  the  praise  of  her  off- 
spring. 

*' You  should  have  one  just  hke  him,  Ellen,"  said  she  with  her 
sharp  little  laugh.  "Then  you  would  n't  be  so  discontented." 

**It  is  n't  a  subject  to  be  jested  about,  Millie,"  said  Grand- 
father gravely.  But  he  looked  at  the  two  young  people  with 
startled  eyes.  He  remembered  that  Amos  had  once  defended 
Ellen ;  he  remembered  that  he  had  seemed  to  have  for  some  time 
a  burden  on  his  mind.  Alas,  for  the  restored  Kloster  with  its 
monastic  orders,  its  brethren  and  its  holy  spiritual  virgins,  if 
Amos  should  go  the  way  of  all  the  world!  Silence  followed 
Grandfather's  reproof,  and  silence  spread.  Like  graven  images 
Grandfather  and  Millie  and  Matthew  sat  in  their  chairs,  and  like 
graven  images  Ellen  and  Amos  stood  by  the  door. 

"I  shall  put  corn  in  the  east  field  next  summer,"  said  Matthew 
after  a  long  pause. 

"So!  "  said  Grandfather  and  returned  to  his  alarmed  specula- 
tion. 

Millie's  mischievous  eyes  went  round  and  round  the  circle. 
They  signaled  a  laughing  message  to  Matthew,  they  gazed  with 
intense  amusement  at  Amos  and  Ellen.  Ellen's  blood  raced 
through  her  veins  and  angry  thoughts  through  her  mind.  It 
seemed  to  her  that  she  was  on  fire.  Amos  stood  with  his  eyes 
upon  the  floor,  all  the  machinery  of  thought  paralyzed.  Millie 
saw  guilt  written  upon  them  both. 

"Grandfather,"  she  began  again  mischievously;  but  before 
she  could  go  on  Matthew  stopped  her  with  the  first  remark 
which  came  into  his  mind.  Even  Ellen's  comment  upon  the  baby 
had  not  been  so  unfortunately  chosen. 

"I  have  engaged  Umbesheiden  to  cut  the  trees." 

Ellen  turned  upon  him  swiftly,  her  eyes  flashing. 

"What  trees.?" 

"I'm  going  to  cut  the  woodland.'* 

"My  trees!" 

"They  are  no  more  yours  than  mine.  I  have  Grandfather's 
permission,  and  it's  only  what  any  far-sighted  person  would  do. 
It  will  in  the  end  be  very  profitable  to  you,  as  well  as  to  me." 

Ellen  took  a  step  forward.  Here  was  the  last  of  heaped-up 


130  ELLEN  LEVIS 

injuries !  Considering  the  turmoil  of  anger  and  grief  within,  she 
spoke  quietly. 

"I've  decided  that  unless  you  and  Grandfather  are  willing  for 
me  to  go  to  college  at  once,  I  'm  going  to  leave  home  altogether." 

"Where  are  you  going,  Ellen .f^"  Matthew  asked  gently.  He 
knew  that  he  had  postponed  too  long  telling  his  plans,  but  Ellen 
made  everything  hard. 

"I'm  going  to  live  with  Mrs.  Sassaman  at  her  sister's  and 
earn  my  living." 

"What  for.?" 

"I  promised  Father  I'd  go  to  college." 

"It  was  a  foolish  promise  involving  matters  over  which  you 
had  no  control." 

"  I  promised  him,  too,  that  I  'd  go  away.  He  did  n't  wish  me  to 
stay  here,  so  far  from  the  world." 

"The  world!"  repeated  Amos  to  his  despairing  soul.  He  had 
read  "Evelyn  Innes"  again  and  still  again;  he  understood  even 
more  clearly  what  had  happened  to  Evelyn. 

"The  world  will  ruin  you!"  warned  Grandfather. 

Millie  meant  to  be  exonerated.  She  was  frightened  —  would 
she  be  left  without  Ellen's  help.?  "No  sister-in-law  was  ever 
kinder  than  I  to  Ellen.  She  has  all  the  say  about  the  house, 
about  planning  the  work  and  everything." 

"I'm  not  complaining  about  you,  Millie.  Matthew,  will  you 
give  me  a  part  of  my  money?" 

"It  would  be  against  my  conscience," 

"Grandfather.?" 

Grandfather  shook  his  head. 

"What  is  your  plan?"  asked  a  placating  Millie. 

"I  shall  get  work  and  save  my  money.  I'm  strong  and  well;  it 
would  be  very  strange  if  I  could  n't  get  along.  At  any  rate,  I  'm 
going  to  try." 

Matthew  rose.  Beside  him  Ellen  looked  pale  and  worn  and 
young.  He  was  disturbed.  It  was  not  possible  that  she  was  seri- 
ous !  "You 've  been  a  great  help  to  us  —  I  don't  deny  that.  It  all 
proves  that  you  could  always  be  a  good,  earnest  Christian  girl  if 
you  would  only  be  sensible." 

He  laid  his  hand  on  Ellen's  shoulder.  The  house  seconded 
Matthew  and  pleaded  with  her;  her  affection  for  him  pleaded. 


ELLEN  LEVIS  131 

She  was  conscious  also  of  Amos  near  by,  and  suddenly  certain 
instincts,  hitherto  unrecognized,  took  advantage  of  her  excite- 
ment. x\ll  pointed  to  the  easiest  way,  to  acquiescence.  It  seemed 
for  a  moment  that  her  father  was  a  stranger  who  had  wandered 
across  the  path  laid  down  for  her  by  many  generations.  Then 
suddenly  she  lifted  her  head  and  went  swiftly  from  the  room. 

"I  believe  she'll  be  all  right,"  said  Grandfather  in  a  trembling 
voice.  '*She  has  an  inheritance  to  fight  against  her,  but  one  also 
to  fight  for  her." 

Matthew  looked  out  the  window  into  the  darkness  and  after 
a  moment  he  wiped  his  eyes.  Ellen's  spirit,  he  believed,  was 
broken,  and  there  is  something  terrible  in  the  breaking  of  a  spirit 
even  to  those  who  have  brought  it  about.  He  saw  her  in  imagina- 
tion lying  upon  her  bed,  crying  pitifully.  Millie  looked  down  at 
her  baby.  It  would  be  dreadful  to  have  to  give  up  her  brood- 
ing hours !  But  Ellen  would  stay,  of  course,  and  she  hoped  that 
now  she  was  cured  of  her  foolishness.  Amos  stood  trembling  by 
the  door.  He  wished  to  speak  to  them  all,  to  reprove  them,  to 
attack  them,  to  insult  them,  even  Grandfather,  but  most  of  all 
Millie.  But  it  would  only  make  matters  worse.  He  saw  with  re- 
lief that  Grandfather  was  rising  and  he  stepped  out  and  waited 
for  him  on  the  doorstone. 

Matthew  was  mistaken  about  Ellen.  She  was  not  crying;  she 
was  standing  upright,  listening  at  last  like  the  prodigal  in  a  far 
country  to  a  call.  She  went  quietly  about  the  house,  bringing 
from  the  attic  two  satchels  and  putting  into  them  the  few  things 
which  she  owned.  Each  motion  had  the  deliberation  of  an  act 
long  planned.  When  she  had  finished  she  undressed  and  lay  down. 

It  was  quite  in  character  for  Ellen  next  morning  to  wash 
the  breakfast  dishes.  Afterwards  she  changed  her  dress  and  ap- 
peared in  the  kitchen,  the  smaller  satchel  in  her  hand. 

"Good-bye,  Millie." 

Millie,  sitting  at  ease,  stared.  "Where  are  you  going?" 

"I'm  going  away;  I  told  you  so  last  evening.  I've  written 
Mrs.  Sassaman's  address  on  this  piece  of  paper  so  that  you'll 
know  just  where  I  am.  W^hen  I  'm  settled  I  '11  WTite  and  Matthew 
will  send  my  other  satchel.  It's  packed  in  my  room.'* 

"He  did  n't  think  you  were  going ! "  Millie  grew  pale.  Matthew 
was,  she  believed,  offended  with  her.  "He's  in  the  field." 


132  ELLEN  LEVIS 

"Tell  him  good-bye  for  me." 

"Are  you  going  to  walk  to  the  station?" 

"Yes." 

Like  a  paralyzed  person  Millie  submitted  to  Ellen's  kiss;  then 
she  looked  at  the  closing  door  and  round  the  kitchen.  The  wash- 
ing was  to  be  done,  and  the  ironing  and  baking  and  cooking  and 
sweeping.  In  her  dismay  she  forgot  even  her  sleeping  baby;  rising, 
she  sped  out  past  the  barn  and  across  the  fields  to  Matthew. 

Ellen  walked  rapidly.  She  did  not  analyze  her  feeling  and  she 
did  not  know  whether  she  was  excited  or  calm,  glad  or  sorry;  she 
knew  only  that  she  was  free.  At  the  end  of  the  second  mile  she 
paused.  Before  her  the  road  sloped  steeply  to  the  creek;  be- 
yond the  creek  the  town  climbed  the  hill.  To  the  right  in  the 
hollow,  stood  the  steep-roofed  buildings  and  Grandfather's  cot- 
tage and  Amos's  schoolhouse.  She  could  hear  the  droning  voices 
of  the  children;  not  in  fact,  because  it  was  too  early  in  the 
morning  for  school,  but  in  memory.  She  saw  the  old  trees  and 
the  lambs  at  play  and  the  little  cemetery  so  close  to  the  road. 
Ah,  she  must  hurry!  Invisible  arms  seemed  to  reach  out  for  her; 
she  felt  her  heart  softening,  her  eyes  filling  with  tears.  Should 
she  run  in  and  say  good-bye  to  Grandfather.^  He  was  a  very  old 
man  and  she  might  not  see  him  again.  But,  no,  she  hastened 
down  the  hill,  across  the  bridge  and  up  the  broad  street  to  the 
station,  scarcely  able  to  see  through  tears. 

There,  startled,  she  beheld  Amos  whose  beauty  was  spectral. 

"I  had  a  feeling  you  would  go,  but  none  of  them  believed  it," 
he  said,  looking  back  over  his  shoulder  as  though  he  feared  de- 
tection. 

"Yes,  I'm  going."  Ellen  was  frightened.  Would  he  try  to  keep 
her? 

"Can't  you  change  your  mind?" 

Ellen  shook  her  head.  She  heard  with  relief  the  whistle  of  the 
train. 

"I  shall  pray  for  you!" 

"Thank  you,  Amos." 

"I  need  n't  say  to  you,  *Be  good!'" 

"No,"  said  Ellen  soberly.  "I'll  be  good  without  that." 

From  a  receding  platform  she  waved  her  hand. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

GOLDSTEIN'S  JEWELRY  STORE 

There  was  this  time  for  Ellen  no  interested  inspection  of  the 
landscape.  Her  gaze,  directed  to  the  back  of  the  next  seat,  did 
not  lift  to  the  hat  of  its  occupant,  but  remained  fixed  upon  the 
dusty  red  plush.  In  the  fields  men  and  women  were  cutting  corn, 
their  blue  jeans  suits  the  color  of  the  river  which  reflected  in  a 
darker  tone  the  clear  sky.  Here  and  there  showed  a  red  or  yellow 
branch  and  there  were  masses  of  weeds  which  were  already 
brown. 

During  her  journey,  which  seemed  like  the  day  of  Matthew's 
wedding,  both  long  and  short,  Ellen  made  futile  efforts  to  assem- 
ble and  arrange  her  thoughts.  The  act  which  she  was  now  exe- 
cuting she  had  dreamed  of  innumerable  times,  but  her  rage 
with  Matthew  and  Millie  had  driven  her  to  it  before  she  was 
wholly  prepared  for  independence.  Her  thoughts  recurred  bit- 
terly to  the  scene  of  the  evening  before.  Millie  was  evil-minded, 
hateful;  she  had  bewitched  Matthew  into  marrying  her  by  pre- 
tending to  be  better  than  she  was;  she  persuaded  him  now  to 
claim  everything  for  himself,  to  prevent  Ellen  from  going  to  school 
in  order  that  she  herself  might  have  more. 

She  suspected  that  it  was  Millie  who  had  suggested  felling  the 
trees.  But  of  that  sacrilege  she  could  not  think  and  keep  her 
composure.  She  heard  the  rasping  sound  of  the  wood  saw;  she 
watched  the  mighty  trunks  crash  down,  emitting  almost  human 
sounds  of  pain.  Matthew  should  be  punished ;  he  should  be  made 
to  suffer  an  equivalent  for  all  that  he  had  made  her  suffer. 

She  understood,  however,  that  one  could  not  safely  allow 
one's  mind  to  be  forever  occupied  with  one's  wrongs.  She  now  had 
her  future  in  her  own  hands,  and  she  did  not  doubt  that  work 
would  be  easily  secured.  In  the  hundreds  of  stores  there  would  be 
a  place  for  her ;  where  so  many  persons  were  gathered  all  kinds 
of  workers  would  be  needed.  She  did  not  doubt  her  ability  to  sell 
goods  of  any  sort.  She  might  find  it  necessary  to  take  a  humble 
position  at  first,  but  she  would  rise  rapidly. 


134  ELLEN  LEVIS 

When  she  reached  the  dark  train-shed  in  Harrisburg,  hands 
and  knees  were  trembhng.  The  waiting-room  was  crowded 
with  passengers  for  an  excursion  train,  and  she  felt  the  country- 
dweller's  discomfort  and  irritation  at  being  jostled.  There  had 
been  no  time  to  notify  Mrs.  Sassaman,  but  she  was  like  the  sun, 
she  did  not  move  from  place  to  place.  Ellen  inquired  the  way 
to  Hill  Street  and  signaled  the  proper  car. 

But  the  car  did  not  stop.  A  second  also  sailed  by,  but  the  third 
was  driven  by  a  motorman  of  friendlier  spirit  who  motioned  to 
the  opposite  corner,  and  she  cHmbed  aboard,  conscious  of  eyes 
upon  her.  She  became  immediately  aware  that  she  did  not  look 
like  the  other  women,  that  her  dress  and  coat  were  a  size  too 
small,  and  that  the  style  of  her  hat  bore  no  relation  to  the 
present  fashion. 

When  she  found  at  last  the  house  of  Mrs.  Sassaman's  sister, 
Mrs.  Lebber,  she  stood  still  in  dismay.  One  of  a  sordid  row  hang- 
ing on  the  edge  of  a  hillside  above  the  railroad  yards,  even  the 
bright  September  sunshine  could  not  make  it  seem  a  possible 
abode.  There  must  be  a  mistake !  But  a  little  marker  on  the  house 
itself  said  "Hill  Street,"  and  this  was  Number  34. 

Doubts  were  soon  put  to  flight  by  the  appearance  of  Mrs. 
Sassaman,  a  stouter,  paler  creature,  but  Mrs.  Sassaman  without 
question,  who  gazed  at  Ellen  speechlessly  while  she  held  fast  to 
the  door. 

"OA,  thou  dear  peace!''  she  said  at  last.  "Ellen,  is  it  you?" 

Ellen  could  not  speak.  Mrs.  Sassaman  cooed  like  a  mourning 
dove. 

"Did  you  come  to  see  me  once  then,  Ellen?" 

Ellen  nodded,  and  Mrs.  Sassaman  opened  the  door  wider  upon 
an  atmosphere  saturated  with  the  steam  of  washing  and  scented 
with  the  odor  of  boiling  sauerkraut,  and  led  her  into  a  little  par- 
lor where  she  sat  down  and  put  her  satchel  on  the  floor.  Mrs. 
Sassaman's  tears  had  begun  to  flow  and  it  was  not  until  several 
moments  had  passed  that  she  could  proceed. 

"Well,  Ellen!"  said  she  again. 

"I  have  come  to  the  city  to  work,"  explained  Ellen,  trying  to 
express  in  her  voice  the  courage  which  she  believed  she  felt  in  her 
soul. 

Mrs.  Sassaman  was  not  encouraging. 


ELLEN  LEVIS  135 

"Oh,  Ellen,  the  city  is  an  awful  place!  People,  people,  people, 
and  dirt,  dirt,  dirt!" 

"I'm  not  afraid  of  it.  I'm  not  going  to  stay  here  always.  I 
mean  to  get  a  place  in  a  store,  and  I  shall  study  in  the  evenings, 
until  I've  saved  enough  to  go  to  college." 

"Are  you  then  still  trying  to  be  learned,  Ellen?" 

"I  'm  going  to  college,"  said  Ellen  stubbornly.  "I  thought  per- 
haps I  could  get  a  room  where  you  lived.'* 

"Here?"  said  Mrs.  Sassaman.  Alas,  by  her  desire  to  live  on 
Hill  Street  Ellen  descended  from  the  pedestal  upon  which  the 
Levises  should  have  remained  exalted!  "I  could  ask  my  sister." 

Mrs.  Sassaman  retired  into  a  quarter  nearer  the  source  of  the 
steam  and  the  odor,  and  returning  brought  with  her  a  mournful 
replica  of  herself.  Mrs.  Lebber  had  been  the  wife  of  a  railroad 
conductor  and  had  remained  after  his  sudden  death  in  the 
house  to  which  he  had  brought  her  as  a  bride.  She  had  insur- 
ance and  death  benefits  sufficient  to  support  her  body  and  she 
had  a  grievance  against  the  railroad  company  upon  which  she 
fed  her  soul.  Life  had  cruelly  disappointed  her.  Like  Mrs.  Sassa- 
man she  had  expected  to  get  married  and  to  remain  married  and 
to  be  a  clinging  vine.  She  looked  at  Ellen  w4th  curiosity  and  dis- 
appointment. 

"Is  this  then  Ellen!"  The  sentence  was  not  interrogatory 
but  exclamatory.  It  said,  "This  the  beautiful  scion  of  a  prosper- 
ous and  famous  family  of  w^hom  I  have  had  to  hear  so  much ! " 

She  sat  down  heavily. 

"She  would  like  if  she  could  get  a  room  here,"  exclaimed  Mrs. 
Sassaman. 

Mrs.  Lebber  stared  in  astonishment  at  Ellen.  Mrs.  Sassaman 
had  shown  no  sisterly  frankness  in  her  recent  accounts  of  the 
Levis  family,  but  now  their  fallen  state  was  plain.  Mrs.  Lebber 
had  a  harmless  but  inordinate  curiosity. 

"Why  does  she  leave  her  nice  home? "  The  question  implied  a 
doubt  about  the  niceness  of  the  home. 

"I  wanted  to  come  to  the  city  to  work." 

"Her  brother  is  married  now." 

"I'm  afraid  you've  made  a  mistake."  Mrs.  Lebber  contem- 
plated the  faded  picture  of  the  railroad  conductor  above  the 
mantelpiece.  "I  never  would  'a'  thought  I  would  have  to  take 


136  ELLEN  LEVIS 

any  one  in  to  live  with  me  for  money.  I  thought  always  that  I 
would  have  it  better  than  I  do  have  it." 

"And  I  too,"  mourned  Mrs.  Sassaman. 

Ellen  bent  her  head.  This  was  a  doleful  beginning.  But  in  her 
"David  Copperfield"  there  was  a  picture  of  the  hero  sitting  with 
his  satchel  beside  him,  as  she  was  sitting  now.  The  recollec- 
tion heartened  her. 

"I  guess  you  could  have  the  little  room,"  said  Mrs.  Lebber; 
"that  is,  if  it  is  you  good  enough." 

Ellen  carried  her  satchel  up  the  stairs.  The  room  indicated 
contained  a  bed,  a  bureau,  and  a  chair;  the  remaining  space  meas- 
ured about  six  feet  by  four.  The  lifted  shade  revealed  the  railroad 
yards  and  the  sky. 

"Just  look  once!"  cried  Mrs.  Lebber,  pointing  tragically  to  a 
drift  of  black  particles  on  the  window-sill.  "Do  all  you  can  and 
it  don't  help." 

Having  agreed  to  Mrs.  Lebber 's  modest  price,  Ellen  partook 
of  the  sauerkraut  and  descended  once  more  to  the  business 
section.  Food  had  restored  her  and  she  felt  in  herself  a  sense 
of  adventure.  She  must  expect  unpleasant  experiences,  she  re- 
minded herself,  and  when  they  came  she  must  remember  her 
goal.  She  was  in  no  immediate  need  of  money,  for  pinned  inside 
her  dress  were  five  ten  dollar  bills  for  which  she  had  exchanged 
the  nickels  and  dimes  and  quarters  saved  through  her  child- 
hood, and  the  spending  money  which  Matthew  had  given  her. 

She  acquired  between  the  hours  of  one  and  five  a  good  deal  of 
experience  of  store-keepers  and  their  ways.  She  went  first  to  the 
department  store  near  the  station  where  Amos  bought  his  books 
and  questioned  the  clerk  nearest  the  door.  The  clerk  looked  at 
her  curiously  and  directed  her  to  an  office  on  the  second  floor. 

"I'd  like  to  fix  that  country  pippin  up." 

"She'll  fix  herself  up,"  was  the  short  reply  from  her  nearest 
neighbor.  "Give  her  time!" 

In  the  office  Ellen's  name  and  age  and  address  were  recorded 
by  a  young  woman  who  spoke  to  her  through  a  brass  grill.  Had 
she  had  experience  in  clerking.^  No.  Training  in  business  col- 
lege? No.  How  much  education  —  High  School?  Ellen  thought 
she  had  had  at  least  an  equivalent.  The  clerk  blotted  her  book 
with  an  air  of  finality. 


ELLEN  LEVIS  137 

"Have  you  a  place  for  me?" 

"Not  now,  of  course.  We  take  on  extras  when  the  holiday- 
trade  begins.  We'll  let  you  hear  from  us." 

In  a  few  other  establishments  Ellen's  name  and  history  were 
recorded,  but  in  most  places  she  was  answered  merely  by  a 
shake  of  the  head.  Every  one,  she  realized,  looked  at  her  last 
summer's  gingham. 

Finally  in  a  little  jewelry  store  near  the  entrance  to  the  sub- 
way through  which  the  street  descended  under  the  railroad, 
she  was  successful.  The  articles  in  the  crowded  window  looked 
very  valuable,  though  they  were  paste  and  plated  ware.  The 
customers  were  chiefly  men,  passengers  from  the  trains  who 
stopped  to  have  their  watches  regulated  and  to  spend  a  few 
minutes  of  spare  time.  The  proprietor  listened  to  Ellen  with 
interest  and  engaged  her  promptly,  promising  her  six  dollars  a 
week  and  an  advance  if  she  did  well.  He  looked  at  her  even 
more  sharply  than  he  listened  to  her,  and  when  she  had  gone 
he  nodded  his  satisfaction. 

Mrs.  Lebber  did  not  view  this  engagement  with  approval. 

"Is  he  a  married  man,  this  Mr.  Goldstein.?" 

"I  don't  know." 

"Are  you  there  alone  with  him  in  his  store?" 

"No;  men  repair  watches  in  a  little  room  at  the  back.'* 

Mrs.  Lebber  shook  her  head. 

"There  are  very  bad  people  in  the  city.  Most  are  bad." 

Ellen  recalled  Millie's  account  of  the  experiences  of  her 
acquaintances  who  went  to  the  city  to  find  work  and  who 
were  set  upon  as  though  they  were  lambs  venturing  into  the 
lairs  of  wolves.  She  scorned  both  Millie's  tales  and  Mrs.  Lebber's 
fears. 

She  went  to  her  room  and  unpacked  her  belongings;  then  by 
the  dim  light  she  wrote  to  Matthew  asking  him  to  forward  her 
larger  satchel.  Having  wiped  away  a  few  angry  tears,  she  opened 
her  algebra  and  fixed  her  mind  upon  it. 

When  she  laid  her  head  on  her  pillow  she  felt  under  her 
cheek  the  sharp  points  of  the  black  dust  she  had  seen  on 
her  window-sill  and  had  felt  under  her  hand  as  she  touched 
the  furniture.  Sometimes  a  light  shower  fell  upon  her  cheek. 
The  trains  had  thundered  in  the  abyss  all  the  evening,  but  she 


138  ELLEN  LEVIS 

had  a  vague  notion  that  they  would  now  go  to  bed.  Instead 
their  activity  increased;  they  seemed  to  come  in  the  window 
and  go  out  the  door,  to  threaten  the  foundations  of  the  house. 

Finding  sleep  impossible  she  considered  the  weapons  with 
which  she  was  to  fight  her  battles.  The  education  which  was  so 
superior  to  that  of  her  country  neighbors  was,  it  seemed,  un- 
fortunately not  correlated  with  the  requirements  of  department 
stores.  But  she  had  a  mind  and  she  would  learn.  In  the  second 
place,  she  had  physical  strength.  She  did  not  count  in  the  least 
upon  her  curly  hair,  her  clear  skin,  her  dark  eyes,  and  her 
round  figure,  nor  realize  that  it  was  these  possessions  which  had 
won  her  her  first  situation. 

Having  exhausted  herself  as  a  subject  for  study,  she  thought 
of  Mrs.  Sassaman,  who  had  changed.  In  the  hght  of  the  old 
days  she  decided  that  Mrs.  Sassaman,  by  turns  silent  and  com- 
municative and  frequently  on  the  verge  of  tears,  had  "some- 
thing on  her  mind." 

She  went  to  work  the  next  morning,  having  made  up  for  sleep 
by  a  cup  of  strong  coffee.  Her  employer  had  opened  his  shop 
and  was  now  finishing  the  sweeping  of  his  fioor,  a  task  which 
was  to  be  hers  from  now  on. 

"I  guess  it  won't  hurt  your  dress,"  he  said  pleasantly. 

Ellen  did  not  catch  the  inner  meaning  of  his  remark. 

"You  might  get  a  little  something  new  once,"  suggested  Mr. 
Goldstein.  "Just  a  new  waist,  perhaps;  it  would  improve  you." 

He  showed  Ellen  where  she  was  to  stand. 

"There  by  the  window.  I'll  look  after  the  back  of  the  shop. 
The  women  have  sure  always  the  easy  time,  ain't  it  so.'^" 

Ellen  perched  upon  a  high  stool  behind  the  counter  and  looked 
out  at  the  passing  throng  of  men  and  women  from  neighboring 
villages.  She  caught  a  man's  wandering  glance;  he  entered  and 
offered  a  w^atcli  which  needed  attention.  Having  directed  him  to 
Mr.  Goldstein,  who  carried  his  watch  to  the  workroom  at  the 
rear,  Ellen  looked  again  toward  the  street.  A  second  passer-by 
met  her  eye  and  came  in,  requesting  a  chain  from  the  case  be- 
fore her.  The  chains  were  plainly  labeled,  a  sale  was  soon  con- 
summated and  Mr.  Goldstein  took  the  burden  of  making  change. 
The  first  customer  stopped  to  speak  to  her  on  his  way  out,  but 
was  interrupted  by  the  arrival  of  a  third. 


ELLEN  LEVIS  139 

"I'll  be  back  when  you're  not  so  busy,"  he  promised  with 
reference  —  at  least  so  she  thought  —  to  the  purchase  of  a 
chain  for  his  repaired  watch. 

There  are  a  good  many  empty-minded  men  who  turn  aside 
at  the  glance  of  a  pair  of  dark  and  straightforward  eyes,  but  the 
supply  is  not  inexhaustible.  The  middle  of  the  morning  brought 
a  period  of  comparative  idleness,  when  Mr.  Goldstein  joined 
the  corps  of  workmen  and  Ellen  sat  with  folded  hands;  at 
noon  there  was  another  season  of  activity  followed  by  another 
period  of  idleness.  During  this  period  her  heart  suddenly  jumped. 
What  could  she  not  accomplish  in  these  hours!  She  brought 
with  her  the  next  morning  her  General  History. 

The  morning  stream  of  pedestrians  interested  her,  though 
she  never  got  a  long  look  at  it,  so  rapid  was  the  entrance  of 
customers.  When  trade  slackened  and  Mr.  Goldstein  had  gone 
to  his  watch-mending,  she  opened  her  book.  She  was  entirely  in- 
nocent of  any  intention  to  steal  his  time,  and  he  was  for  a  while 
ignorant  of  the  theft,  since  he  made  the  opening  of  the  shop- 
door  which  was  her  signal  for  laying  down  her  book,  his  signal 
for  a  return.  She  studied  a  large  and  never-to-be-forgotten 
portion  of  General  History.  Her  book  served  a  minor  purpose; 
she  no  longer  caught  the  eyes  of  passers-by. 

Fate  was  not  so  partial  that  she  kept  Mr.  Goldstein  forever 
in  ignorance  of  this  offense  against  all  the  laws  of  contract 
between  employer  and  employee.  He  found  before  the  end  of 
the  week  Ellen's  book  under  the  counter;  he  heard  with  irri- 
tation the  amused  comments  of  his  friends.  If  he  had  caught  her 
in  the  beginning  of  her  duplicity  he  would  merely  have  ad- 
monished her,  but  he  realized  that  she  had  got  the  better  of  him 
for  almost  a  week  —  not  an  easy  matter,  he  proudly  boasted. 
He  dismissed  her  with  eloquence. 

"Did  you  think  I  could  n't  get  no  other  girls  that  you  could 
try  to  make  such  a  fool  of  me,  say.^  Did  you  think  I  run  a  univer- 
sity? The  men  on  the  street  say  to  me,  *Say,  is  it  true  that  you 
employ  a  reader  to  sit  in  your  window  all  the  time  and  read  a 
book? '  They  ask  me  do  you  read  to  me  while  I  work  and  if  it  is 
the  Scripture.  You  can  go,  and  there  is  your  pay." 

A  pale  Ellen  stared  at  him. 

"I  waited  on  ev^erybody  who  came  in!" 


140  ELLEN  LEVIS 

"Did  you  think  waiting  on  everybody  who  came  in  was  what 
I  had  you  for?"  inquired  Mr.  Goldstein  with  scorn.  "1  do  the 
waiting." 

"What  did  you  engage  me  for?"  she  asked,  bewildered. 

Mr.  Goldstein  believed  that  she  was  as  innocent  as  she 
seemed. 

"Nobody  will  come  in  here  to  see  an  old  man,  will  they?  I 
engaged  you  because  you  had  black  eyes." 

Ellen's  black  eyes  were  for  a  moment  not  visible.  Then  she  put 
on  her  hat  and  took  the  docked  wages  held  out  to  her.  She  was 
not  at  first  insulted,  she  was  only  humiliated.  But  on  the  way  up 
the  dreary  hill  her  sense  of  outrage  grew.  Her  eyes  filled  with 
tears;  she  longed  for  her  room  and  for  a  chance  to  cry.  She  felt 
homeless,  and  forlorn.  She  had  been  driven  from  her  own  home 
and  she  had  no  other. 

Then  in  Mrs.  Lebber's  dismal  little  hall  she  stood  still.  In  the 
parlor  sat  the  last  person  whom  she  wished  to  see  at  this  mo- 
ment — ■  Matthew,  with  her  satchel  beside  him. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

A  CLOCK  RUNS  DOWN 

Matthew  had  undertaken  a  large  stint  of  ploughing  on  the 
Monday  when  Ellen  went  away.  The  field  in  which  he  worked 
lay  on  the  same  ridge  as  the  woodland  and  commanded  a  wide 
stretch  of  fertile  land  and  commodious  barns  and  houses  and 
beautiful  groups  of  trees.  The  soil  was  rich  and  soft  and  turned 
easily,  and  the  two  horses  knew  their  business  so  well  and  needed 
so  little  attention  that  there  was  time  for  many  pleasant  thoughts. 

But  his  thoughts  were  not  pleasant.  ^Millie's  remark  to  Ellen 
had  offended  him ;  she  had  behaved  like  her  rude  sisters  whom  he 
detested.  He  would  admonish  her  gently  and  persuade  her  to  apol- 
ogize; she  would  be  glad,  he  was  sure,  to  put  herself  in  the  right. 

Presently  he  began  to  meditate  upon  his  experience  at  State 
College,  to  reconstruct  the  lectures  of  which  he  remembered 
every  principle  if  not  every  word,  to  follow  again  the  laboratory 
experiments.  He  had  not  yet  recalled  his  father's  reminder  that 
even  if  one  became  a  farmer  science  might  be  useful.  He  liked 
to  think  of  the  young  men  whom  he  had  met  from  various  parts 
of  the  State,  all  at  work  to  improve  the  soil,  though  it  was  prob- 
able that  he  would  have  taken  no  such  pleasure  in  similar  aspira- 
tions on  the  part  of  his  immediate  neighbors. 

As  he  turned  his  horses  in  the  lee  of  the  wood  he  remembered 
uneasily  how  Ellen  had  always  come  to  him  in  the  troubles  of 
her  childhood.  Sometimes  she  had  cried  noisily  so  that  he  was 
ashamed  of  her  —  she  had  never  gone  silently  away  as  she  did 
last  night. 

Amos,  as  well  as  Ellen,  Matthew  thought,  had  a  ground  of 
offense  against  Millie.  He  believed  that  Amos  liked  to  be  thought 
immune  to  love  and  did  not  wish  to  have  even  friendly  relations 
with  any  woman.  He  thought  with  faint  contempt  of  a  man  so 
young  who  chose  a  life  of  school-teaching  and  preaching  when 
he  might  grasp  the  handles  of  a  plough  on  a  cool  and  pleasant 
morning.  He  would  have  no  sympathy  with  Grandfather's  desire 
for  a  return  to  the  ancient  conventual  estabhshment.  His  own 


142  ELLEN  LEVIS 

plans  for  the  future  included  a  very  different  improvement  of  the 
church  property;  he  foresaw  the  ultimate  collapse  or  the  enforced 
removal  of  the  old  buildings  and  the  erection  of  a  small  bright 
meeting-house  with  Amos  as  preacher.  But  no  matter  what  the 
future  might  bring,  there  could  be  nothing  between  Amos  and 
Ellen.  The  idea  was  odious. 

He  had  ploughed  across  and  back  several  times  when  he  saw 
Millie  advancing  along  the  edge  of  the  field.  Hoping  she  had 
come  to  say  that  she  was  sorry  she  had  teased  Ellen,  he  left 
the  horses  standing  with  their  noses  against  the  fence  and  went 
to  meet  her.  She  was  flushed  and  out  of  breath. 

**She  has  gone!"  she  called.  "She  took  a  satchel!" 

Matthew  asked  stupidly,  "  Who  has  gone?  " 

"Why,  Ellen!  Leaving  me  with  all  the  work  and  on  Monday 
yet!" 

"Where  has  she  gone?" 

"To  Harrisburg  to  Mrs.  Sassaman,as  she  said  she  would.  She 
left  the  number  and  you  are  to  send  the  big  satchel." 

Matthew's  first  coherent  thought  was  that  the  neighbors 
would  say  that  he  had  driven  Ellen  away.  Nothing  could  so 
entirely  and  permanently  disgrace  him.  He  laid  the  blame  for 
this  unfortunate  happening  where  it  belonged. 

"It's  all  your  fault!" 

Millie  stood  still,  flushing,  like  Matthew,  a  deep  red,  and  then 
growing  pale.  The  moment  marked  the  end  of  one  era  in  her 
life  and  the  beginning  of  another. 

"My  fault!  When  you  would  n't  leave  her  go  to  school  and 
would  n't  leave  her  have  her  money !  I  guess  you  could  n't  get 
any  one  to  agree  with  you  in  that !  She  has  nothing  against  me 
whatever;  she  was  as  pleasant  as  could  be  and  she  kissed  me 
good-bye.  Did  she  even  walk  out  here  to  say  good-bye  to  you? 
No,  she  did  n't.  She  told  me  to  say  good-bye."  Millie's  voice 
grew  shriller  and  shriller.  She  forgot  that  hitherto  she  had  never 
"had  words"  with  Matthew  and  that  she  had  proudly  con- 
trasted herself  in  this  respect  with  her  father  and  mother. 

"You  had  no  right  to  speak  to  her  the  way  you  did." 

"  Ach,  I  was  only  teasing ! " 

"We  never  alluded  to  such  matters  in  our  family.  Ellen  never 
teased  me  about  you.  My  father  would  n't  have  allowed  it." 


ELLEN  LEVIS  143 

A  scornful  "Your  father!"  was  upon  the  tip  of  Millie's  tongue 
and  crowding  upon  it  even  more  disagreeable  and  pointed  re- 
torts. But  her  need  of  help  was  uppermost. 

"I  have  all  the  heavy  work!" 

Here  was  a  new  and  inconvenient  aspect  of  Ellen's  departure ! 

"Could  n't  you  get  along,  taking  it  slowly?" 

Millie  burst  into  tears.  She  had  expected  Matthew  to  start 
at  once  to  bring  Ellen  back. 

"Of  course  I  could  n't!  If  you  can't  get  Ellen  to  come  back 
you'll  have  to  go  for  Esther." 

Matthew's  heart  sank. 

"I  can't  go  till  this  evening." 

"You  could  if  you  only  thought  so,"  said  Millie.  Then  she  ran 
back  to  the  house. 

Matthew's  dinner  was  poor  and  the  final  touches  were  put 
upon  it  by  himself.  He  asked  Millie  to  describe  Ellen's  going 
and  she  did  so  sullenly.  He  looked  at  the  address  which  Ellen 
had  left  and  felt  more  at  ease.  He  would  write  to  her  and  tell 
her  that  he  was  sorry  she  was  offended,  and  he  was  sure  that 
she  would  return.  He  remembered  with  some  small  remorse  but 
with  a  deeper  pleasure  her  distress  at  separation  from  him. 

In  the  evening  he  drove  to  the  Konigs  and  brought  back 
his  sister-in-law,  who  accepted  his  invitation  with  alacrity. 
Esther  was  a  short,  broad  young  woman  who  divided  her  time 
between  periods  of  cyclonic  activity  and  equally  intensive  idle- 
ness. She  had  had  a  busy  summer  and  had  long  desired  to  visit 
Millie.  Her  mother  had  described  Ellen's  housekeeping  ad- 
miringly and  Esther  anticipated  a  season  of  refreshing  leisure. 
Of  course  she  would  help  when  it  was  necessary,  but  there  would 
be  no  dreary  and  compulsory  round  of  cooking  and  dish-washing. 
Matthew's  invitation  indicated  that  he  had  got  over  the  haughty 
feelings  of  superiority  which  she  had  ascribed  to  him.  In  short, 
Esther  was  in  capital  good  humor. 

She  had  not  been  in  the  Levis  kitchen  a  minute  when  she  observed 
that  Ellen's  housekeeping  was  not  of  the  character  which  she  had 
expected.  The  dinner  dishes  waited  in  the  sink  and  the  soiled 
clothes  which  should  have  been  washed  and  dried  and  folded  dowTi 
for  ironing  were  still  untouched  in  a  basket  under  the  table. 

"Why,  Where's  your  maid.^"  she  asked  jokingly. 


144  ELLEN  LEVIS 

"She's  gone  away,"  answered  Millie  excitedly.  "She — " 

"She's  visiting  Mrs.  Sassaman,  at  34  Hill  Street  in  Harris- 
burg,"  explained  Matthew  carefully.  "There  Mrs.  Sassaman 
lives  with  a  sister." 

"So!"  Esther  discovered  the  ulterior  motive  in  Matthew's 
invitation  and  Matthew,  recognizing  her  smartness,  hated  her 
the  more.  Millie  gave  her  a  glance  which  promised  that  she 
should  know  what  was  to  be  known. 

For  two  days  Matthew  continued  his  ploughing,  then  a 
driving  rain  made  outdoor  work  impossible.  In  such  weather 
he  busied  himself  in  the  barn  or,  when  he  had  figuring  to  do,  in 
the  kitchen.  It  had  been  a  pleasure  to  him  to  lift  his  eyes  and 
see  Millie  sitting  by  the  window  or  Ellen  moving  quietly  about. 
He  often  called  Ellen  to  look  over  a  sum  which  he  could  check 
in  no  other  way  and  she  sometimes  discovered  mistakes. 

Now  he  found  it  impossible  to  sit  in  the  house  which  was 
filled  with  incessant  clamor  of  tongues.  Millie's  laugh  rang  as 
loud  as  Esther's.  Esther  had  brought  an  accumulation  of  neigh- 
borhood gossip  gathered  during  the  many  months  when  Millie 
had  been  deprived  of  this  form  of  entertainment,  and  the  stories 
lost  nothing  by  her  telling.  When  Matthew  and  Millie  were  in 
their  room  at  night,  Millie  repeated  others  which  Esther  had 
told  in  his  absence.  It  was  pleasant,  she  thought,  to  be  married 
and  to  have  in  consequence  no  reserves  whatever. 

"But  I  don't  like  to  hear  such  things,"  Matthew  interrupted 
her  gravely.  "I've  never  been  used  to  anything  like  this.  My 
father — " 

Millie  turned  on  her  side  with  a  contemptuous  "  Ach,  you ! " 

Matthew  lay  very  still.  The  cloudy  night  was  soundless;  no 
cock  crowed  or  distant  dog  barked  and  even  the  oak  trees  did 
not  whisper.  He  pretended  to  be  asleep,  but  he  was  kept  awake 
by  a  vague,  apprehensive  unhappiness.  Suddenly  he  heard  a 
strange,  uncanny  sound,  a  queer  sort  of  metallic  death-rattle. 
He  sat  up.  Millie  had  heard  nothing;  her  breathing  was  the  soft, 
even  breathing  of  sleep.  He  slipped  from  bed  and  went  out  into 
the  hall.  Everything  was  perfectly  still  and  the  warm  air  was 
scented  with  the  comfortable  odor  of  bread  sponge.  Nothing 
stirred.  Yet  the  strange  noise  had  been  unmistakable. 

Then  he  was  aware  of  something  out  of  the  common.  The 


ELLEN  LEVIS  145 

house  did  not  seem  natural,  something  was  amiss.  Suddenly  the 
intense  silence  offered  an  explanation.  The  old  clock  whose 
loud  tick  had  not  failed  as  long  as  he  could  remember  had  run 
down!  Since  his  father's  death  Ellen  had  wound  it  each  morn- 
ing, but  he  had  forgotten  it. 

He  felt  himself  shaken  with  a  chill.  He  was  not  superstitious, 
but  there  was  something  ominous  about  the  ceasing  of  motion 
which  had  been  continuous  for  so  many  years.  He  returned  to 
his  bed  but  could  not  sleep.  The  wind  was  rising;  he  could 
hear  its  whisper  among  the  dead  and  dying  leaves.  Sometimes 
in  her  little  girlhood  Ellen  had  been  frightened  by  the  noise  in 
the  oak  trees  and  had  crept  into  his  bed  for  comfort.  He  had 
not  known  when  she  came,  but  he  found  her  there,  sweet  and 
drowsy,  when  he  woke. 

Then  the  voice  of  the  wind  became  more  importunate  than 
the  thought  of  Ellen.  It  was,  like  the  ticking  of  the  clock,  a  part 
of  his  childhood.  Shivering  though  he  was,  he  rose  and  looked 
out  at  the  dark  wall  of  trees.  If  they  were  gone  there  would  be 
a  silence  at  night  like  the  silence  in  the  house  at  this  moment. 
He  saw  the  bare  ground  with  its  ugly  stumps.  His  intention  to 
fell  the  grove  became  suddenly  incredible.  The  tears  began  to  run 
down  his  cheeks.  Before  he  returned  to  bed  he  knelt  and  prayed, 
but  his  prayer  did  not  ease  his  discomfort.  Like  Millie  he  had 
come  to  the  end  of  an  era. 

To  his  eyes  the  abode  of  Mrs.  Lebber  looked  more  forbidding 
than  it  had  to  Ellen,  who  tolerated  it  as  a  merely  temporary 
abode.  Having  been  received  with  cold  surprise  by  Mrs.  Sassa- 
man,  he  sat  down  to  wait. 

"You'll  think  I  have  n't  bettered  myself!"  said  she  as  though 
Matthew  was  to  blame  for  her  present  situation.  She  could 
hardly  resist  picturing  to  him  in  plain  language  the  unpleas- 
antness and  actual  danger  of  Ellen's  life  in  a  store  with  a 
lot  of  rascals  —  what  could  a  Seventh-Dayer  know  about  life 
in  the  city?  —  but  it  seemed  disloyal  to  mention  Ellen's  affairs, 
and  she  withdrew,  leaving  him  alone.  He  could  hear  a  continual 
whispering  from  the  kitchen  and  when  Ellen  arrived  he  closed 
the  door  of  the  little  room  which  with  its  drawn  shades  seemed 
like  a  prison  cell. 

"Why,  Matthew!"  said  Ellen.  She  sat  down  quickly,  her 


146  ELLEN  LEVIS 

heart  filled  with  murderous  thoughts  of  Mr.  Goldstein.  She  felt  a 
crazy  temptation  to  ask  Matthew  to  go  to  his  store  and  beat  him. 

Matthew  came  to  the  point  at  once.  He  sat  squarely  in  his 
chair,  his  strong,  brown  hands  clasped  between  his  knees,  a 
handsome  figure. 

"Millie  was  wrong  to  speak  as  she  did,  Ellen.  We  know  there 
is  nothing  between  you  and  Amos,  either  on  his  part  or  yours. 
Won't  you  come  back.^" 

Ellen's  eyes  filled. 

"I  did  n't  mind  that  so  much.  I'm  not  here  on  that  account." 

He  saw  dark  circles  round  her  eyes.  She  had  grown  thinner. 
He  had  never  before  looked  critically  at  Ellen. 

"You  are  n't  well!" 

"Yes,  I  am." 

He  looked  still  more  intently;  seeing  for  the  first  time  the 
fine  proportions  of  her  body  and  the  shape  of  her  beautiful  head. 
The  city-dwellers  would  make  of  her,  he  thought  fearfully,  an 
object  of  desire ! 

"Ellen,  I'll  try  again  to  make  my  position  plain.  You  want 
to  be  a  doctor;  Father  gave  you  that  idea.  I  don't  know  how  it 
was  when  he  was  a  young  man,  but  I  know  how  it  is  now.  I  've 
been  away  to  school  and  I  know  what  is  the  attitude  of  the  stu- 
dents to  God  and  the  Christian  religion.  They  are  scoffers  and 
blasphemers;  immersion  and  Foot-washing  and  all  our  beliefs 
and  customs  are  subjects  for  amusement  to  them."  His  cheeks 
burned;  he  had  believed  for  a  while  that  he  was  an  apostle  sent 
to  a  wicked  and  perverse  university.  "I'd  as  soon  cutoff  my 
right  hand  as  help  you  to  such  an  education.  I  know,  too,  what 
most  churches  are  like.  The  preachers  are  so  educated  that  they 
can't  preach  the  pure  gospel.  When  people  are  educated  they 
think  they  have  found  ways  of  getting  round  God!" 

Ellen  listened  curiously.  It  seemed  to  her  that  he  was  speaking 
as  though  to  convince  himself. 

"Why  do  you  blame  those  things  on  education?  Think  how 
different  Father  was  from  Brother  Reith  and  Brother  Miller!" 

"But  Father  was  unbelieving!" 

Ellen  lifted  heavy  eyes  and  looked  at  Matthew. 

"I'm  unbelieving,  too,  then.  I  think  it's  selfish  to  think  so 
much  about  saving  your  soul  as  though  that  were  all!" 


ELLEN  LEVIS  147 

Matthew  might  have  answered,  "or  about  educating  your 
mind,"  but  he  was  not  quick  hke  Ellen.  He  had  determined  to 
be  patient  and  he  answered  gently,  *'It  is  all." 

"I  brought  your  satchel,"  he  went  on,  "but  I  hoped  I  could 
take  it  back." 

Ellen  shook  her  head.  She  thought  again  of  Mr.  Goldstein 
and  with  difficulty  restrained  her  tears. 

"What  kind  of  a  place  have  you?" 

"I  have  n't  any,"  she  confessed. 

"You  said  you  were  in  a  store." 

"I  have  been  dismissed." 

"Why.?" 

"Because  I  studied  a  little  when  there  were  no  customers. 
The  man  did  n't  like  it." 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  now?" 

"I'm  going  to  find  another  place." 

Matthew  took  her  hands  in  his. 

"Ellen,"  said  he  in  a  low  tone,  "come  home." 

Ellen  bent  her  head  upon  her  breast. 

"I  won't  cut  the  trees,  Ellen.  I  was  mad  to  think  of  it.  I 
don't  know  what  got  into  me.  I've  sent  word  to  Umbesheiden." 

She  made  no  answer. 

"And  Millie  shall  never  speak  to  you  that  way  again." 

She  seemed  to  be  struggling  in  a  rising  sea.  Matthew  was 
fond  of  her;  she  guessed  by  some  obscure  instinct  that  he  had 
altered  and  developed,  that  he  was  fonder  of  her  than  of  Millie. 
She  was  tired,  the  journey  before  her  seemed  interminable  and 
beyond  her  strength.  But  she  shook  her  head. 

"No,"  she  said,  "I'm  not  going  to  give  up." 

When  Matthew  reached  Ephrata  he  went  to  the  livery  stable 
and  got  his  horse  and  drove  slowly  to  the  farm.  Tired  and  de- 
pressed, he  longed  to  sit  quietly  and  hold  his  son  in  his  arms. 

But  his  kitchen  seemed  to  be  filled  with  Esther,  rocking  at 
the  end  of  a  busy  day  while  Millie  prepared  supper.  She  held 
little  Matthew  and  sang  to  him  a  coarse  English  song.  In  the 
change  from  one  civilization  to  another  she,  like  many  other 
young  persons,  had  seized  upon  that  which  was  least  worthy. 
Matthew  was  about  to  reprove  her  when  he  recollected  that 
little  Matthew  was  still  too  young  to  be  harmed.    Before  he 


148  ELLEN  LEVIS 

could  be  hurt,  Millie  would  have  to  arrange  some  other  way  of 
running  her  house. 

After  supper  he  walked  to  the  Kloster  where  his  eye  fell 
upon  a  scene  grown  familiar  to  him  during  long  evenings.  The 
light  from  the  brass  lamp  shone  upon  Grandfather's  white 
beard  and  upon  the  golden  hair  of  Amos  bent  above  "The 
Mystic  Dove."  Sometimes  Grandfather  cast  an  approving  look 
upon  Amos  and  sometimes  Amos  cast  a  stealthy  glance  at 
Grandfather. 

Matthew  sat  down  where  his  father  had  once  sat.  He  crossed 
one  knee  over  the  other  and  thrust  his  hands  deep  into,  his 
pockets.  There  was  in  his  heart  a  new  and  irritating  under- 
current of  astonishment  —  how  could  human  beings  live  like 
this? 

"I've  seen  Ellen,"  said  he. 

Grandfather  looked  at  him  without  understanding. 

"You Ve  seen  Ellen?  Why  not?" 

"She  went  to  Harrisburg  as  she  said  she  would.  There  she's 
living  with  Mrs.  Sassaman  and  she  declares  she  won't  come 
back." 

Grandfather  clasped  and  unclasped  his  hands. 

"We  must  pray." 

Matthew  caught  Amos's  burning  gaze  and  believed  it  to  be 
one  of  anger  at  this  mention  of  Ellen. 

"  She 's  living  in  a  miserable  neighborhood  in  a  house  hanging 
over  the  railroad.  She  had  a  place  in  a  store,  but  she 's  been  dis- 
missed. Now  she's  going  to  hunt  for  another  place.  She  looks 
sick."  He  delivered  his  short  sentences  as  though  they  were  so 
many  missiles  hurled  at  Grandfather.  It  seemed  to  Grandfather 
that  they  were  missiles  hurled  at  Ellen.  The  right  to  judge  Ellen 
belonged,  he  believed,  to  him. 

"Matthew,"  he  said,  white  and  trembling,  "you  mustn't 
be  too  hard  on  the  little  one." 

Now  Matthew  trembled.  Nerves  were  on  edge,  peace  had 
gone  from  his  house  and  heart  with  Ellen.  It  was  not  only  that 
he  missed  her,  but  that  there  had  appeared,  as  though  revealed 
by  her  departure,  characteristics  in  Millie  to  which  he  had 
hitherto  been  blind.  It  was  not  that  Millie  had  degenerated; 
it  was  merely  that  he  saw  her  suddenly  as  she  was.  Her  habits 


ELLEN  LEVIS  149 

of  life  were  those  of  the  Konig  family.  His  table  was  no  longer 
neatly  set;  bread  was  softened  by  being  dipped  into  coffee;  his 
house  was  untidy;  the  necessities  of  little  Matthew  were  at- 
tended to  unblushingly  before  every  one.  He  had  discovered 
with  amazement  that  a  man's  mind  is  not  at  rest  even  when 
he  is  converted  and  is  a  husband  and  father.  He  had  in  the  last 
week  had  moments  of  sick  regret  when  he  stood  for  many  min- 
utes with  his  hands  on  the  handles  of  his  plough,  preoccupied 
with  wicked  desires  for  freedom.  He  had,  as  Ellen  surmised, 
changed  radically.  A  late-born  activity  of  mind  tortured  him  — 
it  was  as  though  his  Milhausen  inheritance  had  had  its  way  with 
him,  had  led  him  into  a  trap  and  there  had  abandoned  him. 

"I  was  perhaps  hard  on  Ellen,"  he  said  hotly.  "But  where 
did  I  learn  to  be  hard  on  her.^" 

*'Not  from  me,"  protested  Grandfather.  "She  is  the  object 
of  my  constant  prayers." 

Matthew  felt  his  skin  tingle.  He  drew  a  deep  breath  as  though 
he  would  inhale  more  air  than  the  little  cottage  could  furnish. 
He  seemed  to  shake  his  shoulders  free  of  some  burden,  and  he 
began  to  talk  like  a  madman. 

"You  frightened  her!  You  threatened  her  with  hell!  She  was 
afraid.  You  frightened  me.  You  did  n't  let  me  think  for  myself. 
I  wish  I  too  had  run  away!" 

Then  like  a  petulant  boy  he  departed,  slamming  the  door. 
The  quiver  which  shook  the  cottage  seemed  to  transmit  itself 
to  the  outer  air  and  thence  to  the  Saal  and  Saron.  Leaning 
heavily  on  his  chair  Grandfather  lowered  himself  to  his  knees. 

Matthew  strode  through  the  gate  into  the  graveyard,  catching 
his  breath  once  more.  He  knew  that  he  had  acted  the  fool,  but 
he  did  n't  care,  he  was  so  desperately  unhappy  and  confused. 
As  he  drew  near  the  farm  he  heard  the  wind  in  the  trees.  He 
stood  still;  the  sound  seemed  to  carry  some  message,  but  he 
could  not  interpret  it. 

When  he  opened  the  door  he  saw  at  first  only  the  faint  glow 
of  the  fire  in  the  stove,  a  pleasant  sight  on  a  cool  evening.  But 
he  heard  smothered  laughter  and  saw  that  on  the  old  settle 
Esther  sat  with  a  beau.  She  hailed  him  with  gay  and  hateful 
familiarity. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

FETZER  ENGAGES  A  NEW  MAID 

Ellen  spent  a  dreary  Sunday  within  doors  and  from  time  to 
time  shed  tears.  She  had  not  minded  rain  in  the  country,  but 
this  day  was  intolerable.  All  the  afternoon  Mrs.  Lebber  and  Mrs. 
Sassaman  sat  at  the  parlor  windows  looking  out  into  the  dingy 
street  and  alternating  sigh  with  sigh.  She  went  with  them  to 
evening  service  in  a  little  church,  where  the  singing  was  wretched 
and  the  sermon  grim.  The  scanty  and  spiritless  congregation 
dispersed  silently  and  she  bit  her  lips  to  keep  from  crying. 

The  following  morning  she  started  out  once  more  to  find  a 
position.  In  the  sordid  district  behind  the  Capitol  she  saw, 
next  to  a  Jewish  synagogue  with  strange  lettering  above  its 
door,  a  laundry  whose  sign  announced  "Girl  Wanted,"  and 
there  applied.  The  second  of  her  assets,  physical  strength,  was  to 
serve  her  now.  In  a  few  minutes  she  found  herself  engaged  and 
being  instructed  in  the  art  of  running  wet  towels  through  a  hot 
mangle.  She  put  into  her  work  a  fierce,  triumphant  repudiation 
of  Mr.  Goldstein. 

Steam  laundries  are  run  like  jewelry  stores  for  the  benefit  of 
their  owners,  and  steady  work  is  required.  At  the  end  of  the 
second  day  Ellen,  aching  from  head  to  foot,  walked  home  in 
a  cold  wind.  The  third  evening  she  cried  with  pain,  but  she 
went  back,  believing  that  if  she  failed  now  she  would  fail  alto- 
gether. 

Mrs.  Sassaman  wept  over  her,  brought  her  hot  herb  tea,  and 
finally  in  an  excess  of  emotion  told  what  was  on  her  mind. 

"That  one  toward  Lancaster,  he  has  been  here." 

Ellen  was  puzzled. 

"You  knew  there  was  a  man  there,  Ellen."  Mrs.  Sassaman 
blushed  as  she  tried  to  explain  the  extent  of  her  suitor's  devo- 
tion. "I  used  to  know  him,  he  is  a  lame  man,  but  kind.  He  will 
have  me,  it  seems." 

"You  mean  a  lover?"  said  Ellen. 

"Something  like  that." 


ELLEN  LEVIS  151 

"Are  you  going  to  take  him?"  A  humorous  glance  made 
Ellen's  eyes  look  like  her  father's. 

*'I  don't  know."  Mrs.  Sassaman  now  wept  outright. 

"Of  course  you  are!" 

"He  is  n't  hke  your  father." 

Ellen  did  not  understand  the  implication  —  no  one  was  like 
her  father.  At  the  thought  of  him  she  was  overcome.  She  had 
been  here  for  two  months  and  had  learned  nothing;  the  ex- 
hausting work  at  the  laundry  took  all  one's  time,  and  even 
Sundays  had  been  profitless,  spent  as  they  were  in  weariness 
and  idleness.  Her  life  was  narrower  than  it  had  been  at  home 
and  Mrs.  Sassaman  and  Mrs.  Lebber  were  even  less  congenial 
than  the  companions  she  had  left  behind.  The  amount  of  her 
savings  was  growing,  but  very  slowly. 

She  wished  Mrs.  Sassaman  well,  bought  her  a  wedding  present 
which  she  could  ill  afford,  and  on  Thanksgiving  Day  accom- 
panied her  and  her  farmer  to  the  preacher's.  Mrs.  Lebber  pro- 
vided a  heavy  and  bountiful  dinner  which  she  felt  to  be  a  waste. 

"She  will  be  back,"  she  prophesied.  "I  don't  mean  that  any- 
thing will  go  wrong  between  them;  that  is  not  what  I  mean  at 
all.  I  mean  that  she  and  I  do  not  have  good  luck  with  husbands. 
Between  us  we  have  already  lost  three.  I  think  this  one  is  so 
yellow.  It  is  not  that  I  cannot  marry  that  I  sit  here." 

On  the  Sunday  afternoon  following  Thanksgiving  Ellen  went 
to  walk.  The  air  was  mild,  and  the  holiday  on  Thursday  had 
saved  her  from  Sunday's  usual  exhaustion.  She  walked  down  to 
the  railroad  station,  intending,  none  too  cheerfully,  to  go  over 
the  course  which  she  and  her  father  had  followed  on  a  happy 
day.  In  the  Capitol  she  walked  from  room  to  room  reconse- 
crating herself  to  the  divinity  which  she  worshiped. 

Then  she  sought  the  river  street.  It  was  not  yet  twilight  and 
she  walked  slowly  as  she  and  her  father  had  walked.  She  crossed 
a  bridge  and  looked  back  at  the  domes  and  spires.  The  city, 
nestling  against  a  background  of  blue  hills,  took  on  in  the  after- 
noon sunshine  the  rich  colors  of  a  much  older  settlement.  She 
returned  slowly,  conscious  of  the  beauty  and  of  her  ovm  misery 
and  went  northward  as  she  and  her  father  had  gone. 

Here  in  the  park,  opposite  the  gray  house  which  she  had  ad- 
mired, they  had  stood.  The  house  remained  exactly  as  it  was. 


152  ELLEN  LEVIS 

She  sat  down,  no  suspicion  of  its  ownership,  no  premonition  of  a 
strange  future  stirring  her,  and  looked  now  out  across  the  quiet 
river  and  now  at  the  house.  Only  a  few  of  the  shades  were  raised 
—  had  the  occupants  died  also?  Presently  she  believed  that  she 
saw  at  a  window  in  the  third  story  a  face  with  a  black  mark 
upon  it,  but  she  did  not  regard  it  curiously  or  wonder  whether 
it  was  in  some  way  disfigured,  or  whether  a  shadow  fell  upon  it; 
it  was  a  face  dull  to  her  and  her  miseries.  She  dried  her  eyes 
at  first  gently  and  then  with  an  angry  pressure,  fearing  that  she 
was  going  to  cry  hysterically  as  she  had  done  several  times  after 
her  father's  death. 

The  gathering  twilight  made  her  the  more  conspicuous  and  a 
man  presently  took  a  place  on  the  other  end  of  the  bench  and 
asked  her  her  trouble.  His  motive  was  simple  friendliness,  but 
he  reminded  her  of  the  creatures  who  had  come  at  the  stupid 
beckoning  of  her  eyes  into  the  jewelry  store,  and  rising  quickly 
she  crossed  the  street,  blind  to  a  rapidly  approaching  automobile. 
She  escaped  all  but  a  glancing  blow  of  the  fender,  but  that  threw 
her  against  the  curb. 

Picking  herself  up,  bruised  and  angry  and  tremulous,  she 
found  herself  surrounded  by  the  driver  of  the  automobile,  the 
stranger  from  whom  she  had  flown,  and  Fetzer,  the  owner  of 
the  shadowy  face  which  she  had  seen  at  the  upper  window. 
Fetzer  was  alone  and  lonely  and  she  had  been  watching  Ellen. 
She  had  a  passion  to  which  all  else  was  subservient,  the  find- 
ing of  persons  as  trustworthy  as  herself  to  serve  Stephen,  and 
she  had  been  looking  at  Ellen  critically  from  across  the  street 
as  she  often  looked  at  strong,  plainly  dressed  young  women. 
Ellen  assured  them  that  she  was  not  hurt. 

"It  was  my  own  fault.  I  was  in  a  hurry  and  I  did  n't  watch.'* 

The  stranger  came  forward. 

"I  saw  you  were  in  some  trouble  and  I  thought  I  might  help 
you.  I  did  n't  mean  to  frighten  you." 

"Oh,  I  understand,"  said  Ellen  earnestly. 

The  chauffeur  protested  his  innocence  to  Fetzer. 

"You  saw  her  run  across,  did  n't  you?" 

"Yes."  Fetzer  laid  her  hand  on  Ellen's  arm  and  spoke  in  an 
idiom  familiar  to  her.  "Come  in  here  once  a  little  where  I  live." 

The  chauffeur  was  still  disturbed. 


ELLEN  LEVIS  153 

'*!  don't  want  to  put  the  blame  on  any  one  else  and  run  off." 

Fetzer  saw  three  boys  approaching  rapidly. 

*'I  saw  how  it  happened  —  it'll  be  all  right.  Now  you  come 
with  me." 

With  authority  she  led  Ellen  through  a  little  door  at  the  back 
of  the  house,  and  there  in  a  small  room  Ellen  saw  a  sofa  and 
sank  down  upon  it. 

When  she  opened  her  eyes  again  it  seemed  to  her  that  she 
was  at  home  and  that  Mrs.  Sassaman  was  attending  to  some 
childish  injury.  Gradually  the  articles  of  furniture  appeared, 
and  presently  she  realized  that  the  woman  bending  over  her 
was  not  Mrs.  Sassaman,  but  a  stranger. 

"You  just  lay  still,"  Fetzer  insisted  with  authority.  "I 
watched  you  and  I  said  to  myself,  'There's  one  in  trouble';  and 
I  know  what  trouble  is.  I  was  coming  to  speak  to  you  when  you 
ran  across  the  street.  Did  you  eat  already .f^" 

Ellen  shook  her  head. 

"I'll  bet  that's  what  ails  you.  Is  any  one  expecting  you?" 

Again  Ellen  shook  her  head. 

"Then  stay  where  you  are." 

Fetzer  moved  about  a  small  adjoining  dining-room.  Pres- 
ently she  appeared  in  Ellen's  field  of  vision  wearing  a  white  apron. 

"Can  you  walk  into  the  other  room?" 

With  the  help  of  a  firm  arm  Ellen  made  the  journey.  Now  she 
saw  Fetzer  plainly,  her  neat  little  figure,  her  dreadfully  scarred 
cheek,  the  black  patch  across  her  eye,  and  the  quick,  queer 
motions  of  her  little  head. 

She  ate  slowly  and  with  appetite.  Tears  threatened  to  in- 
terfere with  the  process  of  swallowing,  but  she  choked  down 
food  and  tears  together.  The  little  room  with  its  white  cloth 
and  a  few  pictures  and  blooming  geraniums  was,  after  Mrs. 
Lebber's  grimy  dining-room,  like  paradise.  She  had  heard 
from  Millie  enough  stories  about  the  luring  of  girls  into  magnif- 
icent and  evil  resorts  to  have  been  very  uneasy,  but  she  was 
not  uneasy  in  the  least. 

After  a  while  she  ventured  a  pleasantry. 

"My  father  used  to  tell  about  a  man  who  said  there  were 
three  things  he  would  never  give  up,  the  Democratic  party,  his 
hope  of  salvation,  and  his  good  cup  of  coffee." 


154  ELLEN  LEVIS 

"That's  me,"  said  Fetzer,  swallowing  a  long  draught,  "except 
I'm  no  Democrat." 

When  the  dishes  were  disposed  of,  she  sat  down  by  Ellen,  an 
invitation  to  confidence  in  her  one-sided  glance.  She  believed 
in  special  dispensations  of  Providence,  and  she  was  sure  that 
Providence  had  brought  Ellen  here. 

"Do  you  live  in  Harrisburg?"  she  asked. 

"I  do  now,"  answered  Ellen  after  a  tearful  pause.  "I  was 
born  near  Ephrata.  My  parents  are  dead.  I  lived  with  Mrs. 
Sassaman  and  Mrs.  Lebber,  but  now  Mrs.  Sassaman  is  married. 
I  worked  in  a  store  at  first,  but  now  I  work  in  a  laundry." 

"What  is  your  name?" 

"Ellen  Levis." 

There  was  a  brightening  sparkle  in  Fetzer's  eye.  She  liked 
Ellen  and  she  leaned  forward  and  gazed  at  her  more  earnestly. 

"Would  you  consider  other  work,  perhaps?" 

"If  I  could  better  myself." 

Fetzer's  eye  gleamed  still  more  brightly. 

"I'm  housekeeper  here.  The  family  is  away  now,  but  they 
will  soon  be  back.  The  cook  and  the  downstairs  girl  are  colored 
and  they  live  outside.  We  need  an  upstairs  girl  who  will  live 
here.  The  pay  is  eight  dollars  a  week  and  you  would  have  a  good 
deal  of  time  to  yourseK,  especially  since  you  come  from  Lan- 
caster County  and  know  how  to  work.  I  saw  you  sitting  out 
there  and  you  looked  like  a  reliable  girl." 

Eight  dollars  a  week!  Mrs.  Sassaman  had  received  three.  And 
she  could  save  it  all!  Other  considerations  were  forgotten. 

"Do  you  think  I  could  fill  the  place?" 

"You  can  try.  When  can  you  come?" 

"I  could  come  to-morrow." 

"Could  you  walk  upstairs  to  see  your  room?" 

Ellen  believed  the  journey  was  possible,  and  Fetzer  led  the 
way  into  the  narrow  hall  through  which  they  had  entered  and 
up  two  flights  of  stairs.  There  she  pointed  to  a  large  bedroom. 

"That  is  mine,  and  yours  is  here." 

Ellen  saw  a  small  room  with  a  narrow  bed,  a  white  bureau 
and  a  chair.  She  saw  also  the  river  with  its  reflected  lights. 

"Oh,  I  believe  I  should  like  it!"  she  said  earnestly. 

As  they  went  downstairs  Fetzer  announced  her  intention  of 


ELLEN  LEVIS  155 

calling  for  an  automobile  and  accompanying  her  guest  home. 
Ellen  was  not  able  to  go  alone  —  that  was  one  reason.  In  the 
second  place  now  that  Ellen  stood  erect  and  lifted  her  head 
Fetzer  felt  her  contract  to  be  a  little  precipitate. 

But  Fetzer  found  nothing  amiss  —  indeed,  she  discovered 
that  she  had  known  Mrs.  Lebber's  husband.  From  a  place  so 
dreary  she  was  glad  to  escape.  She  trusted  Mrs.  Lebber  because 
of  the  dinginess  of  her  house  and  Mrs.  Lebber  trusted  her  be- 
cause of  her  homeliness.  She  told  Mrs.  Lebber  the  name  of  her 
employer,  but  neither  to  her  nor  to  Ellen  did  "Lanfair"  carry 
any  significance. 

Ellen  lay  uncomfortably  on  her  hard  bed.  She  was  bruised  and 
sore,  but  she  was  excited  and  happy.  No  one  else  would  have 
contemplated  the  change  in  her  fortunes  with  satisfaction. 
From  being  the  center  of  the  world,  she  had  become  merely  an 
unmarried  sister-in-law,  then  a  clerk  in  a  store,  then  a  mangier 
in  a  laundry,  and  now  a  housemaid,  written  down  in  Mrs. 
Fetzer's  housekeeping  book  as  "  Ellen  Lewis." 

But  she  believed  that  the  tide  of  fortune  had  turned.  She 
counted  on  her  fingers  the  black  and  white  employees  whom 
Fetzer  had  mentioned.  Fetzer  had  also  said  that  extra  women 
came  to  do  the  hardest  cleaning.  Surely  there  would  be  time  to 
study ! 

Kept  awake  by  her  aching  bones  she  saw  a  smoothly  flowing 
river  and  a  little  table  with  books  and  tablets  and  neatly  sharp- 
ened pencils. 


CHAPTER  XX 

MASTER  AND  MISTRESS 

Fetzer,  though  small  of  stature  and  retiring  of  mien,  had  no 
misgivings  about  her  ability  to  manage  the  Lanfair  house.  Her 
instructions  to  Ellen  were  given  with  as  much  positiveness  and 
intimacy  of  detail  as  though  human  destinies  waited  upon  the 
tying  of  an  apron  string. 

She  stood  with  Ellen  at  the  head  of  the  broad  main  stairway 
leading  from  the  lower  hall  to  the  second  floor,  on  every  hand 
closed  mysterious  doors,  and  there  admonished  her.  The  early 
morning  was  bright  and  the  river  sparkled  in  the  sun.  Ellen's 
body  was  sore,  but  her  spirit  marched  bravely. 

*'Now,  what  you  don't  need  of  this  you  don't  have  to  take  to 
yourself."  Fetzer  cocked  her  smooth  head  upon  one  side  and 
looked  at  Ellen,  her  eye  expressing  increasing  satisfaction 
with  her  acolyte.  "I  give  always  this  instruction;  some  don't 
like  it,  but  they  do  it;  others  don't  like  it  and  they  leave,  and 
I'm  glad  they  're  gone  —  what  lumps  I  had  already  —  oh,  my! 
Well,  a  bath  every  day,  morning,  afternoon,  or  night,  it  makes 
no  difference,  but  a  bath."  Mrs.  Fetzer  liked  to  say  "bath"; 
the  th  was  an  achievement,  v  she  had  not  conquered.  "In  the 
morning  a  blue  dress  and  white  apron  —  every  day  a  clean  one, 
you  don't  have  to  do  the  washing  nor  yet  the  ironing.  In  the 
afternoon  a  black  dress  and  a  little  apron  and  cap.  I  have  some 
you  can  borrow.  Rubber  heels  on  your  shoes  and  always  a  low 
woice.  It  should  be  our  object  in  such  a  position  to  be  as  little 
seen  and  heard  as  possible  with  faithfulness  to  our  duty."  The 
last  sentence  had  been  memorized  from  "The  Expert  Maid  and 
How  to  Train  Her."  "We  speak  when  we  are  spoken  to  and 
we  hear  nothing  that  is  not  meant  for  us  to  hear.  The  mistress 
in  a  well-conducted  home  respects  the  independence  of  her  maid 
and  the  maid  respects  the  independence  of  her  mistress.  The 
two  spheres  are  on  the  same  plane,  but  they  do  not  com- 
mingle. 

"Now  we  go  through  the  house."  She  spoke  more  briskly, 


ELLEN  LEVIS  157 

glad  that  the  theoretical  portion  of  her  address  was  safely  de- 
livered. "This  is  her  sitting-room." 

Ellen  looked  with  awe  at  the  large  bay-windowed  room  with 
its  shrouded  furniture. 

"This  is  her  bedroom  and  bath.  Further  back  are  guest- 
rooms and  baths.  Now  on  this  other  side  are  his  bedroom  and 
dressing-room,  and  from  there  a  stairway  goes  down  to  his  office. 
Now  the  other  rooms  on  that  side  are  guest-rooms,  too,  except 
this  small  one  which  is  for  sewing  and  this  one  where  brushes 
and  brooms  and  such  things  are  kept."  She  pointed  with  pride 
to  the  shelves.  "Soap,  towels,  ammonia,  cloths. 

"Upstairs,  beside  our  bedrooms  are  other  rooms  for  company 
and  storage-rooms.  These  two  floors  are  your  care,  and  some- 
times she  may  ask  you  to  button  a  dress  or  something.  Mostly 
she  don't  like  people  round  her." 

This  comment  upon  her  future  mistress  confirmed  Ellen  in 
a  vague  suspicion  that  Mrs.  Lanfair  was  an  old  woman.  It  was 
like  an  old  woman  to  need  help  and  at  the  same  time  to  resent 
it.  She  had  the  kindliest  of  intentions  toward  her. 

Taken  downstairs  she  was  presented  to  the  cook;  then  she 
and  Mrs.  Fetzer  had  their  breakfast  together  in  the  little  dining- 
room. 

"They"  were  coming  home,  Fetzer  said,  in  three  weeks,  and 
after  breakfast  preparations  to  receive  them  were  begun.  Win- 
dows were  washed,  curtains  were  unpacked  and  hung,  and  rugs 
were  unrolled  from  moth-proof  wrappings.  After  the  first  few 
days  Fetzer  left  Ellen  to  proceed  alone  while  she  directed  other 
operations  in  distant  parts  of  the  house.  So  pleased  was  she 
with  her  silent,  capable  assistant  that,  as  she  walked  about, 
even  her  gait  a  little  sidewise,  she  sang  her  favorite  revival  songs. 

Harrisburg  seen  from  the  river  front  was  a  different  place 
from  Harrisburg  seen  from  above  the  railroad  yards.  One  found 
refreshment  for  one's  eye  at  every  glance,  in  fine  old  trees, 
beautiful  against  the  winter  sky,  in  the  broad  river  and  in  the 
distant  movement  of  trains  on  the  other  bank  which  suggested, 
not  showers  of  grime,  but  romantic  journeys.  Heard  at  this 
distance  their  roar  did  not  disturb  sleep,  but  induced  pleasant 
dreams. 

One  had  at  hand  food  for  one's  soul.  Fetzer  exhibited  with 


158  ELLEN  LEVIS 

pride  ]tlie  long  parlors  and  the  library  with  its  many  cases  of 
books,  its  deep  chairs,  its  blackened  fireplace,  and  its  shaded 
lamps.  She  saw  the  hunger  in  Ellen's  eyes. 

"You  dare  read  them,"  she  offered.  "I  take  the  responsi- 
bility." 

Ellen  went  with  Fetzer  to  a  Methodist  church  and  there  was 
presented  as  "Miss  Lewis."  She  felt  for  the  first  time  the  anoma- 
lous character  of  her  position  which  was  uncomfortable  even 
though  it  was  only  temporary. 

Fetzer  corrected  her  but  once.  At  her  suggestion  Ellen  bought 
a  winter  dress  and  hat  and  coat,  and  when  the  new  dress  came 
home,  she  put  it  on  and  inspected  herself  in  the  glass.  The  view 
did  not  satisfy  her.  She  studied  her  profile,  then  she  unbraided 
her  thick  hair  and  coiled  it  loosely  on  the  top  of  her  head. 
Ringlets  escaped  and  curled  back  on  her  neck  and  over  her 
forehead,  low  and  broad  and  white,  without  wrinkle,  like  the 
favorite  forehead  of  mediaeval  romance.  She  put  on  her  dress 
again  and  smiled  and  flushed  as  she  did  long  ago  when  she 
studied  the  effect  of  her  red  necktie. 

Fetzer  flushed,  but  she  did  not  smile.  She  laced  and  interlaced 
her  fingers  and  exhibited  an  uneasiness  apparently  inappro- 
priate to  the  occasion.  Like  Stephen,  she  misunderstood  en- 
tirely the  vagaries  of  Hilda's  mind. 

"I  hardly  knew  you!  It's  all  right  for  you  and  me  when  we're 
by  ourselves,  but  not  for  about  your  work.  It's  too  fancy." 

Ellen  smiled  and  braided  her  hair  in  the  old  fashion  at  the 
back  of  her  head. 

In  mid-January  Fetzer  received  the  cablegram  for  which  she 
had  been  watching,  and  immediately  the  machinery  of  the  es- 
tablishment, so  carefully  oiled  and  inspected,  began  to  revolve. 
She  remained  cool,  though  great  matters  waited  upon  her  word. 

The  doors  were  opened  into  the  beautiful  rooms  and  were 
left  open,  shades  were  lifted,  sunshine  streamed  in  where  it  had 
been  long  excluded,  potted  plants  were  set  in  jardinieres,  maga- 
zines were  arranged  in  orderly  rows  on  the  library  table,  fires 
were  laid  and  bells  were  tested.  Even  the  odor  of  the  house 
changed;  the  faint  mustiness  vanished,  and  a  sensitive  Ellen 
sniffed  with  delight  the  fragrance  of  flowers  and  the  scents  of 
fine  soaps  placed  by  her  in  tiled  bathrooms. 


ELLEN  LEVIS  159 

Through  a  door  under  the  stairway  drifted  a  new  odor,  the 
faint,  pleasant  smell  of  drugs.  Sent  to  the  offices  she  trembled 
with  a  sad  and  reminiscent  delight.  There  were  three  large 
rooms  in  line  —  a  waiting-room  with  comfortable  chairs  and 
books  and  plants  and  a  canary  in  a  sunny  window,  an  office  with 
three  desks  and  tall  filing-cabinets,  and  beyond  an  examining- 
room  from  which  opened  a  little  laboratory.  In  the  second  room 
a  short,  middle-aged  woman  in  a  blue  serge  dress  stood  before 
a  filing-cabinet;  in  the  third  a  tall  nurse  in  a  white  uniform  was 
in  the  act  of  mounting  a  stepladder  before  one  of  many  cup- 
boards. 

*'Are  you  Ellen?"  the  nurse  called  from  the  ladder.  "I'm 
Miss  Knowlton  and  that  is  Miss  Mac  Vane.  Fetzer  says  you 
work  quietly  and  you  don't  drop  things.  Those  are  fine  com- 
pliments from  her." 

Ellen  smiled.  Miss  Mac  Vane  lifted  her  head  and  glanced  in 
her  direction,  then  bent  closer  to  her  work.  Ellen  went  into  the 
inner  room  and  held  out  her  hands  for  the  bottles. 

"Put  them  on  the  table,  each  shelf  together." 

When  the  bottles  were  placed,  she  washed  the  shelves  while 
Miss  Knowlton  examined  the  drugs,  pouring  some  away  and 
making  frequent  notes  on  a  tablet. 

The  next  afternoon  Ellen  helped  to  complete  the  task.  At 
five  o'clock  everything  was  in  order,  even  to  a  little  stand  on 
Miss  Knowlton's  desk  which  held  flasks  of  dilating  fluids  and 
droppers.  Miss  Mac  Vane  was  frequently  called  to  the  telephone. 

"To-morrow,  yes."  The  telephone  rang  again.  "To-morrow, 
yes.  Nine  o'clock.  I'll  give  you  the  first  appointment.  I'm  sorry 
to  hear  that." 

Many  persons,  it  seemed,  awaited  the  return  of  Dr.  Lanfair. 

Fetzer  went  to  the  little  side  door,  through  which  Ellen  had 
learned  all  the  employees  went  and  came,  to  speak  to  silent 
Fickes,  who  brought  round  in  succession  three  cars  of  different 
styles  and  who  said  that  doubtless  the  car  which  the  boss 
brought  home  would  be  fit  only  for  the  junk-heap. 

Ellen  felt  a  growing  excitement  and  a  fear  that  she  would 
not  know  her  part.  She  depended  upon  Fetzer  to  support  her, 
and  Fetzer,  as  though  she  understood  her  anxiety,  patted  her 
arm  encouragingly. 


160  ELLEN  LEVIS 

At  ten  o  *clock  Fickes  brought  his  master  and  mistress  home. 
Ellen,  bidden  to  open  the  door,  saw  Fetzer  stand  with  one  arm 
upon  the  other  like  a  feudal  retainer  while  there  entered  a  short, 
slender  woman  and  a  tall  man. 

It  was  the  relation  of  one  to  the  other  in  height  which  first 
startled  her  —  she  had  seen  those  figures  before !  For  a  moment 
she  was  incredulous,  then  dumfounded;  a  moment  more  and 
she  realized  her  stupidity.  No  wonder  that  her  father  had  stared 
at  this  house!  No  wonder  that  he  had  come  close  to  read  the 
doctor's  name!  Her  knees  trembled  and  excited  thrills  ran  up 
and  down  her  body. 

Both  the  newcomers  shook  hands  with  Fetzer. 

*'I'm  glad  to  see  you  back!" 

There  was  a  light,  slightly  scornful  laugh. 

"Glad  to  see  me  too,  Fetzer?" 

"I  mean  you  too,  Mrs.  Lanfair." 

Ellen  trembled.  They  had  not  looked  at  her,  but  what  would 
they  say  when  they  did?  Would  not  Mrs.  Fetzer  be  astounded? 
How  were  explanations  to  be  begun?  Should  she  take  a  step 
forward  or  wait  for  their  eyes  to  find  her?  She  hoped  that  she 
would  not  cry ! 

But  her  anxiety  was  wasted.  Neither  Stephen  nor  Hilda 
greeted  her,  unless  Hilda's  careless '*A  new  housemaid,  Fetzer?" 
could  be  called  a  greeting.  She  spoke  as  though  the  matter  of 
a  new  housemaid  was  one  which  concerned  her  only  slightly. 

"Yes,  Mrs.  Lanfair.  Ellen  Lewis  is  her  name." 

At  last  Stephen  nodded  absently  in  her  direction.  He  wore  a 
gray  suit  like  the  one  he  had  worn  at  Ephrata.  He  moved  and 
spoke  more  quickly  and  nervously,  and  his  lower  lip  twitched 
occasionally. 

"Miss  Knowlton  and  Miss  Mac  Vane  here?" 

"Yes,  and  everything  is  in  order."  Fetzer  looked  at  Ellen, 
thinking  sympathetically  that  she  seemed  afraid.  The  ways  of 
the  Lanfairs  had  once  paralyzed  her,  too. 

Hilda  paused  on  the  second  step.  She  was  more  slender  and 
there  was  a  queer  change  in  her  aspect;  her  dress  was  tawdry 
and  ill-fitting.  Dr.  Good  would  have  detected  from  her  appear- 
ance and  from  her  moroseness  and  indifference  a  marked  ad- 
vance in  her  malady. 


ELLEN  LEVIS  161 

"You  can't  wait  till  morning!"  she  said  lightly. 

Fetzer  lifted  one  of  the  bags. 

"Take  this,  Ellen." 

Ellen  followed  Fetzer  who  followed  Hilda  to  her  bedroom. 
Ellen  did  not  look  back;  there  would  be  no  immediate  and 
dramatic  presentation  of  herself.  In  the  bedroom  she  set  down 
the  bag  where  she  was  told. 

"You  may  go,  Ellen." 

Obeying  with  relief  she  heard  a  question. 

"A  little  stupid  is  she,  Fetzer.?  She  looks  stupid." 

Ellen  went  out  into  the  hall  and  back  to  the  door  which  led  to 
the  service  stairs.  In  her  room  she  opened  her  books  and  finished 
her  evening's  task.  She  had  power  of  concentration  equal  to  her 
strength  of  purpose;  besides,  the  event  was  too  startling  and 
complex  to  be  approached  at  once. 

An  hour  later,  sitting  up  in  bed  with  her  hands  clasped  round 
her  knees,  she  heard  the  door  open. 

"Are  you  awake  yet?" 

"Yes." 

Fetzer  sat  down  on  the  foot  of  the  bed.  The  pale  moonlight 
was  not  bright  enough  to  show  the  flush  on  her  cheek,  but  the 
trembling  of  her  body  shook  the  bed. 

"Why,  Mrs.  Fetzer,  what  ails  you?"  Asking  the  question 
Ellen  believed  that  she  understood.  Mrs.  Lanfair  had  spoken 
unkindly. 

But  Fetzer's  thoughts  were  not  upon  Hilda. 

"I'd  do  anything  in  the  world  for  him!"  she  declared. 

"For  Dr.  Lanfair?" 

"There  are  some  that  are  just  like  beasts  and  some  that  are 
all  the  while  angels,"  wept  Fetzer. 

Ellen  waited.   Neither  description  seemed  to  fit  Lanfair. 

"If  it  were  n't  for  him  I'd  be  blind.  I  was  shot  once.  My  hus- 
band shot  me  when  he  was  drunk.  He  was  good-for-nothing. 
They  gave  up  my  eyes  in  the  hospital,  doctors  and  doctors 
examined  me  and  gave  me  up,  both  my  eyes,  but  he  would  n't 
have  it.  He  watched  me  day  after  day,  sitting  sometimes  for 
hours  by  me.  They  told  me,  when  they  took  the  bandage  off, 
to  look  at  the  beautiful  river."  There  was  scorn  in  Fetzer's 
voice.  "I  looked  at  him.  He  was  more  to  me  than  any  river." 


162  ELLEN  LEVIS 

The  multitude  of  her  emotions  kept  Ellen  silent. 

"Jim 's  in  jail  for  another  year.  He  got  a  long  term.  I've  often 
prayed  that  God  would  convert  him  and  take  him  home.  That 's 
the  only  thing  for  him." 

Ellen  knew  no  consolatory  word  which  seemed  adequate. 

"She  thought  I  was  stupid!"  said  she  at  last. 

Fetzer  answered  coldly. 

"I  hope  you  won't  be  spited  at  that ! " 

"I'm  not  spited.  Perhaps  I  am  stupid." 

Fetzer  rose  from  the  bed. 

"I'm  so  tired  I  could  drop.  And  nervous!  Lay  down  and  go  to 
sleep,  Ellen." 

But  sleep  was  not  to  be  so  easily  commanded.  Ellen  sat  long 
with  her  hands  clasped  round  her  knees.  The  strange  impressions 
of  that  July  afternoon  came  back  to  her;  then  in  a  wave  grief  wiped 
out  all  recollection  of  Hilda's  behavior.  She  had  never  ceased  to 
hope  that  she  would  find  her  father's  friend,  that  he  would  in 
some  fashion  help  her;  but  now  she  had  seen  him  and  he  had 
not  known  her,  had  not  even  looked  at  her.  She' had  no  eyes 
for  his  disquiet.  She  felt  alone  in  the  great  house.  Presently  her 
cheeks  burned.  She  made  no  allowance  for  the  transforming 
years  which  had  changed  her  into  a  woman.  She  resented  their 
failure  to  recognize  her.  When  she  was  learned  and  famous  and 
not  until  then  she  would  tell  them  who  she  was !  Now  she  hated 
them. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

A  LOST  SHEEP 

Grandfather  Milhausen,  having  heard  the  echoes  of  the 
slamming  door  die  away  and  the  gate  close  with  a  loud  click 
after  angry  Matthew,  began  to  pray.  The  traditional  language 
of  petition  was  on  his  lips  a  powerful  vehicle;  noble  periods 
poured  forth  eloquently.  He  prayed  as  though  the  safety  of  the 
universe  depended  upon  his  entreaties.  He  asked  for  the  blessing 
of  God  upon  them  all,  and  especially  upon  Matthew  and  Ellen, 
and  he  asked  speciifically  that  Ellen  be  led  to  return  with  an 
inclination  to  take  up  the  great  work  which  might  be  hers. 

He  did  not  observe  that  he  failed  to  lift  his  companion's  spirit 
with  his  own,  and  that  along  the  treasured  and  brittle  pages  of 
"The  Mystic  Dove"  a  desecrating  pencil  made  angry  strokes. 
Matthew's  account  of  Ellen's  situation  appalled  Amos;  the 
evil  influences  of  the  world  must  already  have  been  at  work 
upon  her. 

Through  a  sleepless  night  Grandfather's  anxiety  deepened. 
He  reproached  himself  because  since  Levis's  death  he  had 
trusted  too  much  to  the  softening  influence  of  grief  upon  Ellen's 
heart.  He  should  have  importuned  her,  he  should  have  laid  her 
responsibility  before  her.  The  deep  regret  for  his  marriage  and 
his  own  consequent  forfeiting  of  power  returned.  God  had  given 
him  another  chance  in  his  grandchildren  —  had  he  also  for- 
feited that?  The  consciousness  of  the  immanence  of  God  was 
strong  within  him,  but  it  was  the  immanence  of  a  reproachful 
God.  He  had  slept  when  he  should  have  watched  and  idled 
when  he  should  have  toiled. 

Toward  morning  he  began  to  pray,  and  at  last,  when  he  had 
made  a  promise  to  God,  he  fell  asleep.  He  would  go  to  find  Ellen 
and  would  bring  her  back. 

The  inertia  of  seventy-five  was  not  overcome  by  a  mere  in- 
tention. Emotion  had  exhausted  him  and  in  the  morning  he 
could  not  rise.  As  he  looked  out  day  after  day  from  his  bed  upon 
the  towering  walls  of  the  old  buildings,  he  had  blessed  dreams 


164  ELLEN  LEVIS 

which  he  did  not  deserve.  He  saw  again  the  white-robed  pro- 
cessions, heard  the  matin  songs,  and  sometimes  he  lifted  his 
hand  and  tolled  an  imaginary  bell. 

When  at  last  he  was  able  to  go,  he  declined  the  offer  of  Amos's 
company.  Amos  had  waited  upon  him  with  devotion;  he  was 
his  only  anchor  to  windward;  upon  him  alone  he  could  wholly 
depend ;  and  therefore,  as  is  natural  to  human  nature,  he  valued 
him  a  little  the  less. 

He  did  not  begin  his  journey  in  the  trolley  car  as  did  younger, 
braver  spirits  —  steam  was  sufficiently  dangerous  as  a  motive 
power.  Before  he  reached  the  railroad  station  he  was  the  object 
of  interested  observation  by  the  villagers,  who  did  not  often 
see  him.  It  was  one  of  the  clear,  bright  mornings  of  Ellen's 
early  life  at  the  Lanfairs',  and  the  invigorating  winter  air  acted 
as  a  tonic  to  the  old  man.  He  looked  about  him  with  pleasure. 
In  his  youth  he  had  dreamed  of  adventure,  of  journeying  to  the 
ocean  which  was  not  far  away,  but  which  he  had  never  seen, 
and  of  visiting  the  West  toward  which  many  Pennsylvania 
Germans  were  then  setting  their  faces. 

But  his  light-heartedness  did  not  long  continue.  The  sky 
showed  signs  of  change;  fleecy  clouds  gathered,  and  the  bright- 
ness of  the  river  was  soon  dimmed.  With  the  shadow  there  fell  a 
cloud  upon  his  spirit;  he  could  not  long  hold  any  mood  of  youth. 

The  miles  of  furnaces  and  mills  astonished  and  troubled  him, 
signifying  a  great  force  which  he  felt  was  not  of  God,  and  when 
he  arrived  in  Harrisburg  he  was  bewildered  by  the  crowd.  The 
continual  motion  seemed  to  him  to  be  in  a  circle,  though  in  real- 
ity the  only  circular  motion  was  that  about  himself  as  he  stood, 
though  bent,  yet  towering,  prophet-like,  gathering  his  faculties 
together  for  the  plunge  into  the  street. 

He  walked  up  the  steep  hill,  pausing  often  to  rest  and 
passing  each  moment  into  a  deeper  bewilderment.  There  were 
moments  when  he  could  not  recall,  try  as  he  might,  the  object 
of  his  journey.  Then  he  stood  quite  still  looking  about  him  with 
dim,  puzzled  eyes. 

At  the  end  of  an  hour,  when  he  had  at  last  reached  Hill  Street, 
there  had  settled  upon  the  city  a  thick  mist  in  which  black 
particles  were  suspended.  He  found  Number  34  without  dif- 
ficulty and  stood  waiting  until  the  rapid  beating  of  his  heart 


ELLEN  LEVIS  165 

should  subside.  Ellen's  face  and  figure  were  before  him;  he  longed 
for  their  reality  as  a  lover  longs  for  a  sight  of  his  mistress.  She 
was  young  and  strong  and  she  was  a  woman.  Old  as  he  was 
Grandfather  missed  that  complementary  association  of  which 
he  had  long  been  deprived.  But  he  would  not  have  accepted 
this  analysis  of  his  feelings;  he  was  a  shepherd  and  Ellen  was 
his  lost  sheep;  it  was  in  that  spirit  that  he  sought  her. 

Mrs.  Lebber's  house  still  hung  over  the  hill,  it  still  sheltered 
a  sad  spirit,  and  it  still  exuded  when  its  door  was  opened  the 
same  heavy  odor.  Mrs.  Lebber  appearing,  blinked  at  Grand- 
father as  though  she  were  not  sure  whether  he  was  real  or 
whether  he  was  a  thickening  of  the  mist  into  a  human  shape. 
But  the  shape  gave  forth  human  speech. 

"Is  my  granddaughter,  Ellen  Levis,  here?"  he  asked  in  his 
thin  old  voice. 

Mrs.  Lebber  looked  blankly  upon  the  patriarchal  figure. 
Nothing  would  ever  happen  to  her;  she  was  as  stationary  as  her 
house  and  as  gray  as  the  mist,  and  the  stories  of  other  lives  fur- 
nished her  only  entertainment.  She  now  scented  mystery. 

"You'd  better  come  in,  then  we  can  talk,"  she  invited. 

Grandfather  peered  at  her  uncertainly. 

"You  are  Manda  Sassaman's  sister?" 

"Yes,  her  younger  sister." 

Thus  assured,  Grandfather  walked  into  the  small  parlor  and 
sat  down  upon  the  first  chair.  He  did  not  perceive  the  dreari- 
ness of  the  room;  he  perceived  only  the  pleasant  odor  of  food. 

"What  time  does  my  granddaughter  come  from  her  work?" 

"She's  not  here,  she's  gone  this  long  time,"  announced  Mrs. 
Lebber.  "First  Manda  went  to  get  married.  She  is  trying  it  for 
the  third  time,  but  I  don't  believe  she  will  have  luck.  She — " 

"Where  is  Ellen?" 

"Well"  —  Mrs.  Lebber  folded  her  hands  and  began  to  rock 
slowly.  "One  Sunday  Ellen  she  said  she  would  go  for  a  walk, 
and  she  did  n't  come  and  did  n't  come,  and  after  dark  she  came 
driving  in  an  automobile,  and  I  did  n't  know  what  to  make  of  it. 
She  was  down  along  the  river  where  the  rich  ones  live  and  she 
got  in  front  of  an  automobile,  another  automobile,  that  is. 
It's  very  dangerous  down  there.  Then  I  know  a  woman  that 
fives  down  there  and  she  got  a  place  for  Ellen."  Mrs.  Lebber 


166  ELLEN  LEVIS 

gave  the  impression  that  she  had  been  the  chief  agency  in  Ellen's 
finding  a  place  and  thus  unintentionally  counteracted  the  mys- 
terious insinuations  of  the  first  part  of  her  speech.  "It's  on 
Front  Street,  a  very  grand  place." 

A  grand  place  was  to  Grandfather  an  unsafe  place. 

"I  was  married  and  my  husband  was  killed  through  an  open 
switch  which  was  n't  his  fault  and  I  never  got  enough  for  it. 
Then  Manda,  she  came  to  live  with  me,  but  it  was  n't  long  till 
she  must  go  away  and  get  married.  I  still  say  to  her,  'Manda, 
why  did  you  come  if  you  were  not  going  to  stay.^^'  Then  Ellen 
came  and  now  she  is  gone.  There  is  no  peace  but  in  the  grave." 
Mrs.  Lebber  wiped  away  her  tears. 

Grandfather  did  not  dispute  this  opinion;  he  rose  feebly, 
animated  by  alarm.  He  must  find  Ellen  quickly. 

"You  need  n't  go,"  said  Mrs.  Lebber  as  though  he  too  might 
as  well  have  stayed  away  as  go  so  soon.  "I  have  sauerkraut  for 
dinner."  She  quoted  sadly  a  proverb  meant  to  be  cheerful, 
"Sauerkraut  und  Speck  treibt  alle  Sorge  weg." 

A  powerful  temptation  assailed  Grandfather,  but  he  resisted 
it  bravely.  He  must  see  his  lamb. 

He  found  that  descending  the  hill  was  more  difficult  than 
ascending.  His  knees  seemed  to  have  grown  too  weak  to  bear 
him  up,  and  when  he  reached  the  station  he  could  go  no  farther. 
Snow  had  begun  to  fall,  and  he  had  no  umbrella.  He  must  get 
home;  he  prayed  God  that  he  might  succeed  in  getting  home. 
He  saw  the  little  cottage  under  the  shelter  of  the  old  buildings 
—  oh,  to  be  there,  to  lay  his  head  upon  his  pillow ! 

Amos  met  him  at  the  train,  his  face  full  of  hungry  desire. 
He  knew  that  it  was  mad  to  hope  that  Grandfather  would  suc- 
ceed in  persuading  Ellen  to  live  at  the  Kloster,  but  perhaps  she 
would  bring  him  home.  He  had  had  a  day  of  unusual  freedom, 
but  he  had  read  none  of  his  books,  making  of  his  abstinence  a 
sort  of  petitionary  offering.  In  the  intervals  of  his  teaching  he 
had  put  the  cottage  into  thorough  order.  He  saw,  as  he  worked, 
Ellen  sitting  under  the  lamplight,  Ellen  moving  about.  Perhaps 
she  would  help  to  get  the  supper  as  she  did  in  her  childhood. 

When  Grandfather  got  feebly  down  from  the  train,  Amos 
saw  for  the  first  time  that  this  was  an  old,  old  man.  Ellen  did 
not  follow,  and  he  guessed  as  he  took  his  uncle's  arm  that  there 


ELLEN  LEVIS  167 

was  no  good  news.  Grandfather  did  not  speak,  and  even  when 
they  had  reached  the  cottage  he  sat  for  a  while  silently  as 
though  waiting  for  his  strength  to  return. 

**I  could  n't  find  her,"  he  said  at  last. 

"Why  not?  Is  n't  she  with  Manda  Sassaman's  sister?" 

"No.  She's  living  with  rich  people  on  the  main  street.  I 
could  n't  understand  the  woman  exactly,  but  I  have  the  name 
and  the  number  of  the  house.  It's  a  very  worldly  place.  I've 
heard  how  such  people  occupy  their  time." 

Amos  looked  at  Grandfather  curiously.  Grandfather  knew 
nothing  of  the  world ! 

"What  do  they  do?"  he  asked. 

"They  play  cards,"  said  Grandfather  in  a  frightened  tone. 
"And  read  idle  books,  and  their  days  are  spent  in  pleasure- 
seeking.  They  never  think  of  God.  They  drink  spirituous  Hq- 
uors.  There  is  no  health  of  soul  with  such." 

Amos  smiled  a  bitter  smile.  Grandfather  did  not  know  the 
worst  of  them!  What  sort  of  pleasures  did  they  seek?  —  ah, 
Amos  knew !  He  longed  to  be  of  them  —  he  acknowledged  it  to 
himself  shamelessly. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  next?"  he  asked. 

"I'm  going  to  send  a  messenger  to  Ellen.  You  are  to  be  my 
messenger,  Amos.  It  will  not  be  pleasant  to  you,  but  you  will 
do  your  duty." 

Then  Grandfather  retired  to  his  bed. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

A  CRISIS  AT  HAND 

During  the  winter  Ellen's  attitude  toward  the  house  in  which 
she  lived  and  toward  all  the  occupants  save  one  was  that  of  an 
observant  pupil.  She  liked  the  house  not  alone  for  its  slight 
association  with  her  father,  but  for  its  size,  brightness,  and 
beauty  and  its  ordered  and  elaborate  life.  She  heard  for  a  long 
time  no  word  or  sound  to  make  her  suspect  that  the  relation 
of  its  master  and  mistress  was  not  exactly  as  it  appeared  on  the 
smooth  surface.  She  learned  from  Fetzer,  an  expert  house- 
keeper; she  admired  from  afar  Miss  Knowlton  and  Miss  Mac- 
Vane. 

She  soon  ceased  to  feel  resentment  toward  Stephen  —  it 
was  after  all  not  to  be  expected  that  so  brilliant  and  important 
a  man  should  recall  a  young  girl  seen  but  once!  She  was  not 
tempted  to  disclose  to  him  her  identity.  She  put  his  room  in 
order;  she  heard  the  slamming  door  of  his  car;  and  sometimes 
she  caught  a  glimpse  of  his  tall  figure  or  received  his  "Good- 
morning."  She  was  glad  that  she  had  not  called  upon  him  for 
help,  but  that  she  had  made  her  own  way.  As  the  weeks  passed 
her  position  seemed  less  and  less  comfortable,  and  she  longed  to 
be  gone. 

She  was  conscious  of  the  contrast  between  Hilda's  butterfly 
existence  and  the  sober  industry  of  all  others  in  the  house,  but 
she  felt  toward  Hilda  as  Stephen  had  once  felt,  that  she  was  by 
nature  different.  She  was  astonished  at  her  scant  and  diaph- 
anous clothing,  at  her  lying  in  bed  a  large  part  of  the  day  and 
at  her  habit  of  smoking  cigarettes,  but  her  association  with 
her  was  limited.  Her  lowly  position  saved  her  from  observation, 
and  in  any  case  Hilda  had  no  fear  of  youth  or  bodily  attraction 
for  Stephen. 

Hilda's  jealousy  grew  daily  stronger.  She  heard  one  day  for 
a  long  time  the  sound  of  Stephen's  voice,  and  at  last  she  stole 
into  the  passageway  leading  to  his  office.  She  could  see  him  as 
he  sat  on  the  end  of  Miss  Mac  Vane's  desk,  his  arms  folded,  hold- 


ELLEN  LEVIS  169 

ing  forth  steadily  and  earnestly  and  sometimes  gayly.  Miss 
Knowlton  sat  in  her  informal  fashion  on  the  edge  of  her  desk, 
her  attitude  much  like  Stephen's. 

Hilda  could  not  understand  Stephen's  medical  discourse 
and  her  inability  maddened  her  and  quickened  her  suspicions, 
which,  though  they  were  insane,  were  yet  terribly  real.  Why 
did  these  women  stay  on  year  after  year.'^  Why  did  Stephen  pre- 
fer to  work  incessantly,  to  be  with  them,  rather  than  with  her? 
Why  had  he  given  up  friends  and  recreation?  Why  was  he  unwill- 
ing to  go  away? 

She  turned  at  this  moment  a  new  corner;  she  determined  some- 
how to  punish  these  women,  to  get  rid  of  them.  Toward  Miss 
Mac  Vane  especially  she  developed  suddenly  a  clearly  defined 
intention,  unalterable,  though  not  yet  developed  in  its  cunning 
perfection. 

In  the  spring  Ellen  made  a  friend.  Seeing  in  the  paper  the 
announcement  of  an  evening  lecture  on  astronomy  at  the  High 
School,  she  went,  recalling  the  rides  with  her  father  when  he 
had  taught  her  the  names  of  the  constellations.  Next  to  her  sat 
a  familiar  figure.  Miss  Mac  Vane,  who  turned  her  thick  glasses 
upon  her.  For  the  first  time  in  her  acquaintance  she  really 
saw  Ellen. 

"Why,  Ellen!  Is  it  Ellen?" 

"Yes,  Miss  MacVane." 

"Are  you  interested  in  astronomy?" 

"I  hke  to  learn  all  I  can." 

"How  much  schooling  have  you  had?" 

"I'm  ready  for  college." 

Miss  MacVane  turned  all  the  way  round  in  her  chair. 

"Are  you  going  to  college?"  she  demanded.  Her  voice  ex- 
pressed not  so  much  surprise  as  defiance;  she  seemed  to  dare 
Ellen  to  go  to  college. 

"I  hope  to." 

"When?" 

"In   the  fall." 

"Well,  of  all  things!"  The  weak  eyes  sparkled.  "Now  if  you 
want  any  advice,  you  come  to  me.  I  know  all  the  ropes.  No 
registrar  can  tell  me  what  course  I  want  or  don't  want,  nor 
can  any  boarding-house  creature  charge  me  three  prices." 


170  ELLEN  LEVIS 

Ellen  described  the  extent  of  her  preparation  and  Miss  Mac- 
Vane  grew  excited. 

"How  fooHsh  to  think  of  staying  for  four  years!  Get  it  in 
three !  You  can.  You  're  no  chicken  —  I  mean  you  're  old  enough 
to  use  your  time  and  not  to  run  after  the  men  and  dramatics. 
Where  are  you  going  .^" 

"I  thought  I'd  go  to  a  girls'  college." 

"Oh,  why  don't  you  go  to  Cornell.'^"  Miss  Mac  Vane  spoke 
with  missionary  zeal.  "Don't  shut  yourself  up  with  a  lot  of 
little  girls  —  you  '11  never  stand  it.  Go  where  you  may  have 
some  independence.  Cornell  is  — " 

But  what  Cornell  was  its  admirer  was  prevented,  by  the  ar- 
rival of  the  lecturer,  from  explaining. 

"We'll  continue  this,"  she  whispered,  pressing  Ellen's  re- 
sponsive hand. 

When  the  lecture  was  over  they  walked  together  to  the  cor- 
ner and  there  let  a  half-dozen  cars  pass.  Miss  Mac  Vane  proved 
to  be  an  ardent  advocate  of  education. 

"I  was  a  cash  girl  —  I  didn't  know  any  other  name  than 
C-a-a-sh  "  —  a  passer-by  turned  a  startled  head  —  "I  had  n't  any 
money.  Have  you  money?  Because  if  you  have  n't  there's  a  fund." 

"If  I  could  borrow  just  a  little,  then  I  could  be  sure  of  going 
in  the  fall,"  said  Ellen  excitedly. 

"Of  course  you  can  borrow!  To-morrow  Doctor '11  be  away 
and  you  bring  your  catalogues  into  the  oflfice.  I  '11  help  you. " 

"You  won't  tell!" 

"Not  a  word,"  promised  Miss  Mac  Vane. 

Ellen  went  home  and  sat  by  her  window.  It  was  late,  but  she 
was  wide  awake.  A  gentle  breeze  fanned  her  cheek;  trains  rolled 
far  away  to  distant  cities  and  mountains;  a  thousand  lights 
gleamed  and  happy  voices  rose  from  the  park.  She  saw  almost 
within  her  grasp  that  for  which  she  sighed.  She  was  intensely 
happy  with  almost  her  last  unclouded  happiness.  One  could 
mould  one's  life  if  one  had  only  determination  enough,  if  one 
would  only  sacrifice  that  which  was  not  essential  for  that 
which  was.  She  thought  with  affectionate  pity  of  Grandfather, 
of  Matthew,  of  Amos,  even  of  Millie  to  whom  she  owed  grati- 
tude because  Millie  had  driven  her  away.  She  pitied  every  one 
who  was  not  Ellen  Levis. 


ELLEN  LEVIS  171 

The  next  afternoon  she  took  her  books  into  the  office,  where 
Miss  Mac  Vane  sat  with  her  back  to  the  Hght  and  with  a  dark 
shade  over  her  eyes. 

"Ellen,  I  have  to  have  drops  in  my  eyes,  and  I  told  Miss 
Knowlton  that  I  believed  you  'd  put  them  in  after  her  hours  so 
that  she  won't  have  to  stay.  You  will,  won't  you?'* 

"Of  course." 

Miss  Knowlton  brought  a  bottle  of  eye-wash. 

"It  always  stands  right  there  in  the  corner  and  it's  marked 
*  Mac  Vane.'  You  can't  miss  it.  The  other  bottle  in  the  stand 
is  distilled  water." 

Ellen  watched  the  operation  attentively.  Miss  MacVane's 
blinking  eyes  were  red-rimmed  and  her  face  was  pale.  When 
Miss  Knowlton  had  closed  the  door  she  burst  out : 

"He  actually  keeps  me  seeing,  Ellen.  If  he  didn't  watch, 
I  'd  be  blind  —  think  of  it !  I  'd  do  anything  in  the  world  for  him 
—  anything!"  She  touched  her  eyes  with  her  handkerchief  and 
winced.  "I  sewed  my  way  through  college  —  that's  the  trouble. 
You'll  have  to  read  your  catalogues  to  me;  I  can't  see." 

Both  women  heard  suddenly  a  light,  clear  laugh.  Hilda  was 
coming  in,  accompanied  by  a  gay  companion.  In  the  heart  of 
Miss  Mac  Vane  burned  a  bitter  resentment;  she  thought  of  the 
millions  of  stitches  she  had  taken  with  dim  and  aching  eyes,  and 
of  the  price  of  one  of  Hilda's  dresses  which  would  have  saved 
her  sight. 

A  faint  odor  of  cigarette  smoke  drifted  along  the  hall  and 
through  the  door.  Hilda  was  doubtless  sitting  in  her  favorite 
corner  of  the  library  sofa,  smoking.  Miss  MacVane's  lips  curved 
downward.  Sounds  more  distressing  than  the  thin  laugh  had 
penetrated  through  doors  and  traveled  along  passageways  to 
her  ears,  but  she  said  nothing  even  to  Miss  Knowlton,  though 
she  was  aware  that  the  ears  of  Miss  Knowlton  were  as  keen  as 
her  own.  Both  women  knew,  as  Fetzer  sometimes  suspected,  all 
that  was  to  be  known,  at  least  all  that  Fetzer  knew. 

For  a  few  days  Miss  MacVane's  eyes  improved  slowly.  Each 
afternoon  Ellen  escorted  her  to  her  car,  and  one  day  as  she 
walked  back  she  saw  standing  and  gazing  at  the  river  a  tall 
figure.  She  noted  with  amusement  its  immobility  in  contrast 
with  the  ludicrous  excitement  of  a  flock  of  blackbirds  that  in- 


172  ELLEN  LEVIS 

flated  their  bodies  and  hopped  about  near  by;  then,  recognizing    • 
the  tall  figure,  she  ran  across  the  street. 

"Why,  Amos!" 

Amos  looked  down  at  her.  Grandfather  had  been  ill,  and  this 
was  his  first  opportunity  to  execute  the  commission  with  which 
he  had  been  charged.  He  had  meant  to  ring  the  bell,  and  to  enter 
the  great  and  beautiful  house,  but  his  courage  had  failed  and 
he  stood  wondering  what  he  should  do.  He  was  startled  by  the 
change  in  Ellen. 

"Were  you  looking  for  me?" 

"Yes,"  he  answered,  trembling. 

"Would  you  like  to  walk.?" 

"Yes."  H^ 

"How  is  Grandfather?  "  - .  ^ 

"He  was  sick,  but  he's  better." 

"And  Matthew?" 

"I  don't  often  see  him." 

"And  how  are  you?" 

Amos  shifted  his  eyes  uneasily.  Nothing  was  well  with  him. 
He  had  become  a  prey  to  melancholy  and  he  was  losing  his  faith 
in  God.  His  terror  became  at  times  physical  as  well  as  mental; 
he  feared  that  the  Saal  and  Saron  might  fall  upon  him  and  crush 
him;  the  whole  universe  was  sinister,  existence  was  torturing. 

"Everything  is  with  me  as  it  was,"  he  said.  "Uncle  is  greatly 
worried  about  you.  He's  afraid  you  have  come  to  a  place  where 
there  is  worldliness." 

"  What  does  he  think  I  do?  " 

"He  thinks  in  such  places  they  play  cards  and  perhaps  drink, 
and  are  light-minded." 

"I  dust  and  sweep  and  make  beds,  Amos,  and  when  I'm 
through  I  study.  There  are  good  women  in  the  house  and  the 
office  and  when  I  have  spare  time  I  spend  it  with  them."  She 
accounted  in  detail  for  her  presence  here.  "  I  wrote  Matthew 
all  about  it.  I'm  only  here  to  earn  money  and  in  the  fall  I'm 
going  to  college.  There's  nothing  wrong  with  these  people." 

Then  Ellen  flushed  —  remembering  Hilda's  bare  shoulders, 
the  turn  of  her  wrist  as  she  flicked  the  ash  of  her  cigarette  — 
what  would  Amos  say  to  that? 

Amos  saw  the  flush  and  felt  his  torturing  suspicions  return. 


ELLEN  LEVIS  173 

Were  there  any  young  men  in  the  house?  Did  the  doctor  have  a 
son?  Did  they  look  upon  Ellen  with  desire? 

"Oh,  Ellen ! "  he  said  wildly.  *' I  have  n't  anything  in  the  world 
but  you!" 

Ellen  saw  the  hungry  eyes;  hitherto  they  had  roused  only 
pity  —  now  they  repelled. 

"What  you  want  can't  be,  Amos.'* 

Amos  plunged  into  fear  that  he  had  frightened  her. 

"I'll  never  say  anything  more,  Ellen!" 

They  walked  a  few  squares  silently;  then  Amos  said  sadly, 
"I  won't  go  any  farther;  I'll  go  down  the  other  street."  He  was 
certain  that  he  could  trust  her.  There  was  no  reason  to  be 
jealous  of  ambition. 

When  Ellen  reached  home  she  went  upstairs  and  opening  the 
door  at  the  back  of  the  second  story  went  to  the  linen  closet. 
The  hall  was  bright  with  the  light  of  the  level  sun  and  sweet 
with  the  odors  of  spring  flowers.  She  believed  herself  to  be  quite 
alone  and,  Amos  forgotten,  stood  still  in  intense  enjoyment. 

But  she  was  not  alone;  a  shrill  voice  from  Hilda's  room  an- 
nounced her  presence. 

"I'm  going  to  Aiken,  I  tell  you!" 

Stephen's  voice  in  answer  expressed  an  eager  desire  to  placate. 

"There's  no  reason  why  you  should  n't." 

"Are  you  going  with  me?" 

"I  can't." 

"You  can!"  Uncontradicted  Hilda  went  on  more  loudly, 
"It's  on  account  of  the  woman  in  your  office!" 

"That's  one  of  the  reasons.  I  certainly  can't  let  her  go  blind." 

"You  are  shameless  —  shameless!" 

Ellen  closed  the  door  softly.  When  her  knees  would  carry 
her,  she  went  slowly  to  the  third  story.  Fetzer  sat  behind  her 
closed  door;  she  kept  Stephen's  worst  troubles  a  secret  from 
herself  when  that  was  possible.  She  surmised  with  distress  that 
they  had  recently  grown  more  acute.  Now  she  opened  the  door 
quickly. 

"Did  you  just  come  in,  Ellen?" 

"Yes,"  answered  Ellen,  her  face  in  shadow. 

"Well,  you  need  n't  do  anything  more  downstairs." 

Ellen  closed  the  door  of  her  own  room  and  stood  against  it. 


174  ELLEN  LEVIS 

"How  dreadful!"  slie  said  to  herself.  "It  is  she  who  is  shame- 
less." 

When  she  had  had  her  supper  she  walked  a  little  distance 
along  the  river-bank  to  a  favorite  bench.  She  looked  back  at  the 
gray  house  and  saw  the  moon  shining  on  its  irregular  roof. 
There  were  trees  between  it  and  her  and  it  seemed  to  stand 
isolated,  a  grim  and  solemn  habitation. 

So  Mrs.  Lanfair  was  like  that!  How  troubled  Dr.  Lanfair 
must  be!  Resentment  had  now  faded  wholly,  she  was  filled 
with  pity.  Then  suddenly  in  her  dark  eyes  appeared  the  emo- 
tion expressed  by  Fetzer's  single  eye,  by  Miss  Knowlton's 
pale  blue  orbs  and  by  Miss  Mac  Vane's  dim  vision,  the  ten- 
derness with  which  most  women  regard  a  man  who  for  some 
reason  is  reduced  from  the  superior  position  which  should  be 
his.  She  longed,  as  they  did,  with  her  whole  heart,  to  be  of 
some  supreme  service  to  him.  Her  wish  was  soon  to  be  granted. 

When  she  went  into  the  office  the  next  afternoon  to  put  drops 
into  Miss  Mac  Vane's  eyes,  she  looked  at  her  with  curiosity. 
She  had  not  the  remotest  claim  to  beauty;  she  was  short  of 
speech  and  sometimes  irritable,  and  her  thick  glasses,  without 
which  she  could  see  nothing,  disfigured  her.  It  was  not  possible 
that  Mrs.  Lanfair  feared  good  Miss  Mac  Vane! 

Miss  Mac  Vane  removed  her  green  shade  and  her  thick  glasses, 
and  Ellen  lifted  the  little  rack  and  took  from  the  bottle  the 
attached  medicine-dropper.  A  penetrating  odor  frightened  her. 

"I'm  ready,"  said  Miss  Mac  Vane  patiently.  "I'm  better, 
thank  God!"  The  expletive  was  heartfelt  —  she  did  thank  God. 

Ellen's  hand  poised  motionless  above  the  little  vials. 

"What's  the  matter,  Ellen?" 

"Why— "began  Ellen. 

"What  is  it?"  Miss  Mac  Vane  blinked  unseeing. 

Still  Ellen  made  no  motion.  There  was  something  wrong. 
Ammonia  was  not  a  medicament  for  the  eye,  but  the  lotion 
seemed  to  be  pure  ammonia! 

"What  is  it,  Ellen?" 

Ellen  believed  suddenly  that  she  understood  what  had 
happened  —  Dr.  Lanfair  had  made  a  mistake.  Her  next  act, 
quickly  conceived  and  executed,  was  like  a  protecting  gesture. 
Into  her  eyes  came  again  the  expression  with  which  Fetzer  and 


ELLEN  LEVIS  175 

Miss  Knowlton  and  Miss  MacVane  regarded  their  master. 
No  wonder  that  he  had  made  a  mistake!  She  put  deliberately 
into  Miss  Mac  Vane's  eyes  two  drops  of  distilled  water. 

When  Miss  MacVane  had  gone,  Ellen  stood  holding  the  bottle 
and  looking  at  it.  What  should  she  do  now.^  Had  she  behaved 
with  unwarrantable  officiousness.'^  She  stood  in  the  same  spot 
holding  the  bottle  in  her  hand  when  Stephen  entered  and  stared 
at  her  in  surprise  and  then  in  amazement.  For  an  instant  they 
regarded  each  other,  for  the  first  time  straightforwardly.  A 
vaguely  disturbing  recollection  troubled  Stephen's  mind  and 
then  was  immediately  lost  in  a  sharper  emotion. 

"What's  the  matter.?" 

Ellen  grew  pale  and  her  knees  weakened.  But  it  was  better 
to  have  been  unwarrantably  officious  than  to  have  used  the 
wrong  medicine! 

"I've  been  putting  drops  into  Miss  Mac  Vane's  eyes  in  the 
afternoon,  so  that  Miss  Knowlton  would  n't  have  to  stay,  and 
to-day  there's  something  wrong  with  it." 

Stephen  took  the  flask  roughly. 

"It's  different  from  yesterday," said  Ellen,  "there's  a  great 
deal  more  of  it,  and  there's  an  odor." 

Stephen  held  the  little  bottle  with  both  hands. 

"If  I  did  wrong,  I'm  sorry.  I  can  go  to  Miss  Mac  Vane's 
house  if  you  want  me  to." 

At  last  Stephen  looked  up. 

"Couldn't  you  smell  this  stuff?"  he  demanded.  "Couldn't 
she?  Where  is  she?" 

"I  did  n't  use  it!"  cried  Ellen. 

"Oh,  you  did  n't!" 

"I  used  distilled  water.  I  did  n't  say  anything  to  her." 

Stephen  looked  at  his  housemaid,  bewildered. 

"Why  did  n't  you?" 

"I  thought  it  was  your  mistake  and  that  I'd  better  tell  you." 

"You  say  the  solution  was  all  right  yesterday?" 

"I  think  so." 

"It  did  n't  burn?" 

"No;  I'm  sure  it  didn't." 

His  gaze  held  Ellen's  eyes  helplessly.  He  tried  vainly  to  re- 
member her  name,  but  at  any  rate  her  name  did  n't  matter. 


176  ELLEN  LEVIS 

"Was  this  bottle  in  its  usual  place?" 

"Yes." 

Stephen  grew  white;  his  hand  trembled  and  he  set  the  rack 
with  the  little  vials  down  quickly. 

"Tell  Fetzer  to  come  here,  please." 

Ellen  climbed  to  the  third  story  and  found  Fetzer  in  her  room. 
Hilda  had  gone  motoring  and  the  house  was  soundless. 

"What  ails  you,  Ellen?"  asked  Fetzer.  "You  look  so  queer." 

"Dr.  Lanfair  wants  you  to  come  to  the  oflfice." 

"What's  the  matter?" 

"I  don't  know,"  answered  Ellen  honestly. 

She  went  into  her  room  and  stood  looking  out  the  window. 
He  had  not  even  thanked  her!  Could  the  mistake  have  been 
Miss  Knowlton's?  What  had  Fetzer  to  do  with  it?  Perhaps  he 
had  called  for  Fetzer  on  other  business.  Five  minutes  passed, 
ten  minutes,  and  she  stood  looking  down  upon  the  river. 

When  her  bell  rang  she  went  to  the  oflSce,  and  was  there 
bidden  to  close  the  door,  whether  by  Stephen  or  Fetzer  she  did 
not  know.  She  saw  only  two  white  faces.  Fetzer  had  sat  down 
because  she  could  not  stand.  Ammonia  in  eye-wash  —  she 
knew  how  that  would  madden  and  perhaps  destroy!  Her  hand 
covered  her  scarred  cheek.  Vividly  recollected  sensations  para- 
lyzed her  mind;  she  sought  as  yet  no  solution  of  this  strange 
event,  but  dwelt  only  on  the  imagined  agony. 

"Fetzer  tells  me  that  you  use  ammonia  for  household  pur- 
poses," said  Stephen.  "Where  do  you  keep  it?" 

Ellen's  eyes  sought  Fetzer's  for  confirmation. 

"In  the  cupboard  in  the  hall." 

"Have  you  ever  missed  any?" 

"Why,  no!" 

"Does  any  one  but  yourself  go  to  the  cupboard?" 

"No"  —  then  Ellen  corrected  herself.  She  still  spoke  straight- 
forwardly and  innocently.  "Mrs.  Lanfair  got  some  there  yester- 
day; she  filled  one  of  the  engraved  bottles  from  her  bathroom; 
at  least  I  think  so." 

"What  makes  you  think  so?" 

Ellen  flushed. 

"Because  I  saw  that  a  new  bottle  had  been  opened,  and  when 
I  cleaned  Mrs.  Lanfair's  bathroom  I  saw  there  was  ammonia 


ELLEN  LEVIS  177 

in  her  violet  water  bottle.  I  think  she  probably  wanted  to  clean 
a  chain  or  something." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Stephen. 

When  Ellen  had  gone  he  looked  down  at  the  floor  and  Fetzer 
looked  at  him.  Her  lips  had  parted;  she  pressed  her  hand  against 
them  as  though  to  close  them.  She  had  always  known  that  Hilda 
was  a  wicked  woman,  but  not  that  she  was  as  wicked  as  this ! 

Ellen  climbed  the  steps  slowly.  She  heard  presently  Hilda's 
motor  stop  at  the  door,  and  Hilda  come  upstairs.  Then  quiet 
fell  once  more.  After  an  hour  the  door  of  the  motor  slammed 
again  —  Stephen  and  Hilda  had  gone  out  to  dinner.  She  heard 
late  at  night  the  sound  of  their  return.  She  had  remembered 
now  suddenly  and  clearly  a  forgotten  detail  of  their  visit  to  the 
farmhouse. 

** Dementia,  Father!"  she  heard  herself  say.  "Who  has  de- 
mentia?" 

She  looked  at  her  open  door.  Did  she  hear  the  sound  of  a 
creeping  approach?  She  sat  upright.  If  she  closed  and  locked 
her  door  she  would  leave  Fetzer  to  the  mercy  of  she  knew  not 
what.  But  she  would  lock  the  door  at  the  head  of  the  stairs;  then 
they  would  both  be  safe.  But  she  might  shut  out  a  call  for  help! 
Did  she  hear  now  a  half -smothered  voice?  She  rose  and  slipped 
barefooted  into  the  passage.  There  she  saw  a  small  dark  figure. 

"Is  that  you,  Ellen?"  asked  a  sharp  voice. 

"I  thought  I  heard  a  noise." 

"You  were  dreaming.  It  was  nothing.  Go  back  to  bed  and 
shut  your  door." 

Ellen  obeyed,  and  Fetzer  sat  down  on  the  upper  step  from 
which  she  had  risen,  and  suddenly  the  clock  struck  two.  The 
sound  of  voices  was  not  imaginary. 

"Can't  you  sleep,  Hilda?" 

"No,  I  can't  sleep." 

"Is  there  anything  I  can  do  for  you?" 

"You  can  attend  to  your  own  affairs." 

Fetzer's  eyes  sought  longingly  the  window  at  the  end  of  the 
hall.  If  morning  would  only  come!  She  guessed  now  what 
ailed  her  mistress,  and  her  kind  heart  ached  with  remorse  and 
terror.  Madness  —  she  knew  what  madness  was ! 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

A  STRANGE  JOURNEY 

Mayne  answered  Stephen's  telephone  call  with  his  usual 
abounding  cordiality.  He  was  glad  to  hear  Stephen's  voice  and 
he  had  been  thinking  about  running  up  to  spend  the  night.  Yes 
he  could  come  very  soon  —  and  bring  Dr.  Good? 

"And  bring  Dr.  Good,"  he  repeated.  "Did  I  understand  you 
correctly?" 

"Yes." 

"You  wish  Good  to  come  professionally?" 

"Yes,  as  soon  as  possible." 

Mayne  understood  the  significance  of  the  invitation.  He  was 
not  prepared  to  meet  this  emergency,  forewarned  though  he  had 
always  been.  He  mopped  his  brow.  His  hair  was  now  entirely 
gray,  but  he  was  still  ruddy  of  complexion  and  possessed  a  boy's 
vigor  of  body.  A  chill  fear  passed  over  him,  not  only  for  Hilda, 
but  for  himself. 

"Lanfair  has  requested  me  to  bring  you  to  Harrisburg,"  he 
explained  to  Dr.  Good.  "I  anticipate  some  serious  development. 
I  had  begun  to  believe  my  fears  to  be  groundless."  He  mopped 
his  forehead  again.  "It  is  distressing.  I  judge  there  has  been 
some  acute  crisis,  but  when  I  called  her  to  announce  our  pro- 
spective visit  —  I  suggested  to  Lanfair  that  I  do  that  —  her  voice 
sounded  natural." 

He  had  a  moment  with  Stephen  upon  their  arrival  and  re- 
ported the  result  of  his  interview  to  Dr.  Good  —  whispered  it, 
though  they  were  alone  in  Good's  bedroom  with  the  door  closed. 
His  alarm  grew  hourly  stronger.  One  of  his  aunts  had  become 
violent,  had  lived  for  several  years  in  an  asylum,  and  had  at  last 
put  an  end  to  her  life. 

"It  seems  that  Hilda  has  taken  an  intense  dislike  to  a  half- 
blind,  middle-aged  woman  in  Lanfair's  oflBce  and  resented  the 
fact  that  he  felt  it  professionally  necessary  to  remain  here  to 
watch  this  woman's  eyes  when  she  wished  him  to  accompany 
her  away.  She  is  known  to  have  taken  ammonia  from  the  house- 


ELLEN  LEVIS  179 

hold  supplies  the  day  before  ammonia  was  put  into  this  Miss 
MacVane's  eye-wash.  The  woman  is  a  harmless  lonely  soul 
whom  Lanfair  saved  from  blindness." 

Dr.  Good  shook  his  head.  He  was  a  small  man  remarkable 
for  his  bright  eyes,  his  large  steel-rimmed  spectacles,  and  a 
strong  Pennsylvania  German  accent  which  he  would  never  lose. 

"If  a  homicidal  mania  is  developing,  as  frequently  happens 
in  such  cases,"  he  said,  "she  should  be  confined  at  once.  Lan- 
fair should  be  persuaded  of  the  necessity  for  it.  She  should  be 
got  quietly  to  the  King  Sanatorium." 

Dr.  Good  was  secretly  glad  that  the  problem  of  transportation 
was  not  his.  He  remembered  that  Lanfair  had  been  compara- 
tively a  poor  man  —  he  had  paid  dearly  for  his  riches ! 

The  problem  of  transportation  proved  to  be,  however,  quite 
simple.  Hilda  greeted  her  guests  at  dinner.  It  was  a  season  when 
dress  patterns  were  scant  and  she  wore  little,  but  her  slender 
body  appeared  to  be  inadequate  to  sustain  even  her  bright, 
filmy  dress  and  her  string  of  pearls.  She  seemed  to  be  becoming 
as  ethereal  as  the  smoke  of  the  cigarettes  which  she  so  constantly 
used.  Dr.  Good  was  quick  to  observe  that  she  was  suspicious  and 
uneasy,  that  she  seemed  to  be  under  great  tension.  It  was  by  no 
means  improbable  that  a  crisis  was  at  hand. 

Poor  Hilda  welcomed  her  uncle.  She  was  miserably  conscious 
of  the  turmoil  within,  and  she  felt  that  his  presence  would  steady 
her.  Several  times  she  put  out  her  hand  toward  him  across  the 
corner  of  the  table  and  he  covered  it  with  his  own. 

"  But  your  hand  is  cold ! "  cried  Hilda.  "  What  is  the  matter?  " 

"Nothing  is  the  matter,"  answered  Mayne  with  a  nervous 
cough.  He  felt  that  they  surrounded  her,  three  great  men,  like 
enemies,  a  fluttering,  helpless  creature  in  her  own  house.  She 
should  not  be  confined  unless  there  were  no  other  way.  She  was, 
as  far  as  he  could  see,  wholly  normal.  \Miile  Good  talked  to 
Stephen  about  a  problem  with  which  both  ophthalmists  and 
psychiatrists  were  concerned,  he  clasped  Hilda's  hand  a  little 
more  closely. 

It  may  have  been  that  his  ill-concealed  anxiety  and  alarm 
roused  her  suspicions,  or  that  the  cunning  plan  which  she  be- 
lieved that  she  was  carrying  out  excited  her  beyond  the  point 
of  safety;  it  may  have  been  merely  that  her  disease  advanced 


180  ELLEN  LEVIS 

rapidly  to  a  climax.  Suddenly  she  felt  that  he  —  that  they  all 
—  were  against  her.  It  was  no  longer  possible  for  her  to  restrain 
herself.  She  began  to  stammer  and  to  point  her  forefinger  at 
Stephen.  Hers  was  the  dreadful  gaze  of  a  bird  at  a  snake  or  a 
prisoner  at  a  hated  jailer. 

*' Uncle,"  she  said  earnestly  in  her  clear,  high  voice,  "he's 
not  true  to  me."  The  three  men  heard;  so  did  Ellen,  impressed 
into  service  by  the  absence  of  the  waitress,  and  so  did  Fetzer  in 
the  pantry.  "I  can  tell  you  about  the  many,  many  women.  I 
can  — " 

"As  I  was  saying,  .  .  ."  went  on  Dr.  Good. 

"Hilda,  I  have  something  to  tell  you,"  said  Mayne,  desper- 
ately. 

But  Hilda  would  not  be  silenced.  She  rose,  pushing  away  from 
her  the  silver  tray  with  its  coffee  service  and  its  delicate  cups.  A 
flask  of  cognac  which  was  not  well  balanced  fell  with  a  light  crash 
upon  a  piece  of  fragile  china;  then  her  hands,  spread  suddenly 
apart  in  a  frantic  gesture,  sent  her  pearls  in  all  directions. 

"You'll  listen  while  I  tell  you  everything!  You'll  — " 

A  terrified,  watchful  Fetzer  came  a  little  beyond  the  screen 
which  stood  before  the  pantry  door.  She  knew  the  purpose  of 
their  coming  —  did  they  understand  that  Hilda  was  really  mad, 
and  did  they  know  that  madness  was  cunning  and  quick  and 
dangerous? 

Hilda  turned  her  head  and  looked  at  Fetzer,  her  hatred  leap- 
ing to  her  eyes. 

"There  is  one  of  them,  Uncle!"  As  Mayne  rose  she  threw 
herself  into  his  arms.  "I  want  to  go  home  with  you!" 

Mayne's  eyes  filled  with  tears. 

"Now?" 

"Yes." 

"Can  you  prepare  to  go  at  once?" 

Hilda  fixed  her  eyes  upon  Ellen  who  had  neither  pretensions 
to  learning  nor  connection  with  Stephen's  hated  work. 

"She'll  help  me."  She  looked  about  wildly  and  Mayne  and 
Ellen  guided  her  up  the  stairs. 

"I'll  give  you  some  medicine  to  make  you  feel  better,  then 
this  girl  will  assist  you."  Mayne  was  trembling.  It  was,  alas, 
not  to  his  house  that  they  would  take  poor  Hilda ! 


ELLEN  LEVIS  181 

Ellen  helped  the  shivering  figure  into  a  street  dress.  The 
medicine  began  to  have  its  effect;  Hilda  grew  drowsy  and  lost 
control  of  her  tongue.  When  Mayne  returned  she  pointed  to  Ellen. 

*'What  is  it,  Hilda?  Are  you  afraid  of  her?'* 

Hilda  shook  her  head. 

"Do  you  wish  her  to  accompany  you?"  Even  in  moments 
like  this  Mayne  chose  his  words. 

Hilda  nodded  and  Mayne  went  to  speak  to  Stephen.  When 
he  returned  they  helped  Hilda  down  the  stairs.  She  became  more 
drowsy  and  had  difficulty  in  finding  the  step  of  the  throbbing 
motor.  She  laid  her  head  on  Ellen's  shoulder  and  Ellen  steadied 
her  with  her  arm.  The  car  gave  a  premonitory  whirr,  then  it 
seemed  to  spring  ahead.  It  did  not  move  as  though  guided  by 
the  expert  hand  of  Fickes  and  Ellen  realized  that  Stephen  was 
at  the  wheel  and  that  Dr.  Good  sat  beside  him. 

Once  in  the  long  journey  Mayne  asked  a  question. 

"Is  n't  Mrs.  Lanfair  heavy  against  your  shoulder?" 

"No,"  answered  Ellen. 

Mayne's  voice  was  thick  and  Ellen  herself  had  shed  tears. 

At  eleven  o'clock  the  car  stopped  beneath  a  porte-cochere 
and  a  nurse  and  two  orderlies  came  down  the  steps.  They  re- 
ceived poor  Hilda  tenderly  and  with  businesslike  hopefulness. 
The  three  men  followed  the  little  procession  into  the  lighted 
doorway. 

Until  they  reappeared,  a  space  of  time  which  seemed  long, 
but  which  was  in  reality  short,  Ellen  looked  up  at  the  beautiful 
doorway  and  at  the  dimly  outlined  ornamental  shrubbery.  A 
stranger  had  now  joined  Lanfair  and  his  companions  and  together 
they  approached  the  car. 

"She'll  sleep  till  morning,  Stephen,  then  I'll  be  here,  and 
Good  also.  We'll  go  into  the  city  for  the  night." 

Ellen  heard  a  new  voice,  smooth,  a  little  hesitating,  and  very 
kind.  Dr.  King  had  new  theories  and  indestructible  enthusiasm, 
and  his  experiments  were  being  eagerly  watched. 

"I  should  advise  against  the  patient  seeing  you  at  once,  Dr. 
Lanfair." 

"I  understand,"  answered  Stephen.  He  looked  frowning  at 
the  car. 

"That  girl's  got  to  be  taken  back.  I  may  as  well  go  home." 


182  ELLEN  LEVIS 

"She  has  comported  herself  admirably."  Mayne  raised  his 
voice  so  that  Ellen  might  hear. 

Stephen  stepped  into  the  car  as  one  who  feels  his  way.  He 
looked  at  Ellen  as  though  her  outline  were  dim. 

"  You  'd  better  sit  beside  me.  It  will  be  rough  riding  there  on 
the  back  seat." 

He  did  not  speak  again  until  the  journey  was  almost  over, 
when,  in  the  city  limits,  he  slackened  his  speed. 

"You've  been  of  great  service — "  again  he  tried  vainly  to 
remember  Ellen's  name. 

Ellen  wiped  her  eyes. 

"I'm  very  sorry  for  her,"  she  said. 

"Yes,"  said  Stephen  heavily.  His  own  eyes  smarted,  though 
he  had  never  expected  to  shed  tears  for  Hilda. 

Fetzer,  hearing  the  motor,  opened  the  door.  She  felt,  it  must 
be  confessed,  a  little  jealousy  —  it  was  she  who  should  have 
helped  Stephen !  She  climbed  with  Ellen  the  narrow  stairway  at 
the  back  of  the  house,  and  Stephen  went  up  the  broader  stair- 
way to  his  dressing-room.  She  sat  with  Ellen  while  she  got  ready 
for  bed. 

"It  was  God's  will  that  the  colored  girl  was  out,"  she  said 
devoutly.  "Nobody  will  know  anything.  Even  those  women 
in  the  office  don't  need  to  know,  ain't  it  so,  Ellen.?" 

"I  shan't  tell  them." 

Fetzer  rose  and  laid  her  hand  across  her  cheek. 

"Most  people  think  he  laid  all  this  time  on  a  bed  of  roses.  But 
we  know." 

Ellen  lay  down  and  pushed  the  pillow  away  and  turned  over 
on  her  face,  her  cheek  on  her  arm.  Her  heart  throbbed,  her 
cheek  was  flushed.  The  strange  journey,  Stephen's  eyes,  his  long, 
slim  hand,  the  touch  of  his  arm  against  hers  as  she  stepped  to  her 
place  beside  him,  the  darkness,  the  swift,  unbroken  pace,  once 
a  deep  breath  —  all  passed  through  her  mind.  She  did  not  think 
coherently;  she  merely  recalled  each  detail  with  nervous  ex- 
citement. 

Stephen  wheeled  his  bed  to  the  bay-window  from  which  he 
could  look  out  upon  the  river.  Sleep  was  far  from  him.  It  was 
many  years  since  he  had  thought  of  Hilda  with  tenderness,  but 
he  thought  of  her  tenderly  now.  After  a  while  he  rose  and  went 


ELLEN  LEVIS  183 

across  to  her  rooms  and  sat  down.  The  low  moon  illuminated 
some  of  the  luxurious  furnishings  and  cast  others  into  shadow. 
He  sat  motionless,  recalling  the  early  days  of  his  devotion,  the 
hours  of  dreaming  before  Edward  Levis's  meager  fire,  Hilda's 
advances,  his  shy  response,  his  rapture. 

Then  other  recollections  thronged,  and  face  and  heart  burned. 
He  rose  quickly.  He  would  not  think  of  her  unkindly  in  this 
house,  nor  in  this  hour,  now  that  she  was  gone.  No  blame  could 
be  imputed  to  her;  she  was  a  creature  unfinished,  spoiled,  ill. 
He  wished  that  he  had  been  as  patient  in  his  heart  as  he  had  been 
unfailingly  kind  in  his  behavior.  Now  she  was  gone,  she  could 
trouble  him  no  more,  harass  him  no  more,  embarrass,  shame, 
terrify  him  no  more.  He  went  to  his  bed  and  to  sleep. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

AN  UNHAPPY  SCHOLAR 

No  sooner  had  Amos  let  Ellen  go  away  from  him  than  he  re- 
gretted his  foolishness.  He  might  as  well  have  walked  back  with 
her  to  the  house  where  she  lived  and  thus  have  been  much  longer 
in  the  half -paradise,  half -purgatory  of  her  company.  He  did  not 
cross  to  the  next  street  as  he  had  intended,  but  walked  rapidly 
after  her. 

The  sun  was  setting  and  the  river  was  bathed  in  golden  light. 
Over  all  lay  a  spell  broken  only  by  bird-songs.  Men  and  women 
walked  slowly;  a  succession  of  lovers  wandered  arm-in-arm; 
automobiles  moved  quietly;  and  occasionally  a  pair  of  horses 
trotted  briskly  by,  drawing  a  mistress  who  clung,  for  this  hour 
at  least,  to  the  vehicle  of  an  older  time.  But  Amos  saw  neither 
the  river  nor  the  pedestrians  nor  heard  the  bird-songs;  his  eyes 
were  fixed  ahead  searching  for  a  figure  which  had  already 
vanished. 

When  he  reached  Ellen's  habitation  a  sheltering  twilight  had 
fallen  and  he  sat  down  on  a  bench  in  the  park.  He  saw  lights 
shine  here  and  there  and  he  thought  that  she  might  be  lighting 
them,  though  his  idea  of  her  duties  was  still  vague.  After  a  while 
he  hid  his  face  in  his  hands.  The  ways  of  the  world,  the  quicken- 
ing of  the  pulse  as  night  drew  on,  the  intercourse  of  delicate, 
silken-clad  women  and  predatory  men,  the  prospect  of  fond 
assignations,  the  eluding  of  watchful  wives  and  guardians  —  it 
was  the  world  of  Evelyn  Innes  and  Anna  Karenina  in  which 
Ellen  was  moving,  though  only  a  narrow  space  of  street  and 
wall  divided  her  from  him.  He  felt  that  he  should  go  mad. 

Presently  he  saw  that  a  car  had  glided  into  place  before  the 
Lanfair  house.  The  door  opened  and  let  out  a  soft  glow  and  at 
once  a  tall  man  and  a  short  woman  came  down  the  steps  and 
drove  away.  The  man  helped  his  companion  into  the  car  with 
careful  solicitude  —  it  was,  except  for  one,  the  last  drive  which 
Stephen  and  Hilda  were  to  have  together.  Amos  saw  himself  and 
Ellen  going  thus  happily. 


ELLEN  LEVIS  185 

When  it  was  quite  dark  he  rose  and  went  on  his  way,  past 
other  handsome  houses  to  a  cross-street  by  which  he  approached 
the  square.  There  again  he  stood  still  as  though  his  powers  of 
locomotion  were  sufficient  to  carry  him  only  a  short  distance. 
The  large,  open  space  wore  an  air  of  festivity.  In  the  center,  as 
from  the  center  of  a  spider's  web,  street-cars  started  to  suburban 
districts,  and  round  this  center  circled  perpetually  the  gleaming 
lights  of  automobiles.  In  a  still  wider  circle  coincident  with  the 
pavement  moved  the  human  throng.  At  the  curb  stood  more  or 
less  permanent  groups  held  by  the  eloquence  of  a  traveling 
quack  or  soap-vender. 

The  largest  group  listened  to  the  loud  singing  and  tambourine- 
playing  of  the  Salvation  Army,  and  Amos,  hearing  their  music, 
moved  idly  toward  them.  The  company  was  made  up  of  two 
men  and  three  women  to  whom  religion  was  not  a  dull  habit, 
but  a  burning  passion,  and  on  whose  faces  were  recorded  struggles 
as  fierce  as  his  own.  Their  leader  was  a  short  man  with  immensely 
broad  shoulders  and  a  countenance  which  expressed  an  almost 
savage  earnestness.  He  had  mounted  a  box  in  order  to  be  seen 
and  he  was  speaking  rapidly,  reminding  his  audience  that  they 
were  sinners  who  needed  a  Saviour.  He  gesticulated  with  dis- 
proportionately large  hands,  hardened  by  work  in  the  steel  mill. 
He  did  not  hold  work  to  be  a  curse  but  a  means  of  salvation. 

Amos  gazed  without  seeing  and  heard  without  understanding. 
Presently  he  moved  on  down  the  street,  looking  absently  at 
jewels  and  boxes  of  candy  and  delicate  slippers.  In  the  window 
of  the  department  store  he  saw  a  sign,  "New  Titles  in  the 
Thinker's  Library."  Alas,  the  store  was  closed! 

When  he  reached  the  Kloster  it  was  almost  midnight,  but 
Grandfather  was  awake  and  spoke  feebly  as  soon  as  the  door 
opened. 

"Well.?" 

The  vague  question  was  startling.  For  an  instant  Amos  could 
not  remember  the  object  of  his  journey. 

"Oh,  yes,"  he  cried  catching  his  breath,  "I  saw  her;  she's  all 
right;  she  v/orks  hard." 

"Will  she  come  home?" 

"No,"  said  Amos.  He  stood  with  bent  head,  looking  at  the 
floor.  He  felt  a  sharp  envy  of  Ellen.  After  a  while  a  slight  move- 


186  ELLEN  LEVIS 

ment  startled  him.  He  saw  Grandfather  standing  in  the  door- 
way. He  had  wrapped  the  sheet  about  him  and  might  have 
passed  for  the  importunate  ghost  of  the  King  of  Denmark.  It 
seemed  to  Amos  that  Grandfather  had  been  looking  at  him  for 
a  long  time. 

"Did  you  try  to  persuade  her  to  come  home?" 

"Yes,"  answered  Amos  vaguely. 

"And  she  would  n't  listen?" 

"No." 

Grandfather  went  slowly  back  into  his  room  and  lay  down. 
After  a  while  he  uttered  a  sigh  which  seemed  unending. 


CHAPTER  XXV 

A  PROJECTED  ATONEMENT 

Stephen's  forty-second  birthday  fell  upon  the  day  on  which  he 
made  the  final  arrangements  for  Hilda's  residence  at  the  King 
Sanatorium.  He  had  not  seen  her  because  she  was  obsessed  by 
fear  of  him,  and  he  sat  in  the  office  until  the  superintendent  re- 
turned with  Mayne  and  Dr.  Good.  Even  Dr.  King,  sanguine  as 
his  temperament  was,  was  in  this  case  not  hopeful. 

"The  family  history  is  not  encouraging,"  he  explained,  with 
deepest  commiseration  for  Stephen,  deprived  before  middle  life 
of  an  attractive  companion.  *'But  you  must  not  despair." 

"Is  her  physical  condition  also  likely  to  grow  worse.^"  asked 
Mayne.  He  did  not  mop  his  brow  upon  this  occasion:  he  felt, 
not  without  self-reproach,  a  deep  relief. 

"We  can't  prophesy  about  that.  We  have  had  patients  of  her 
type  who  have  lived  for  a  long  time  and  others  who  lived  only  a 
few  months." 

"What  do  you  mean  by  a  long  time?" 

"Well,  for  some  years,"  said  Dr.  King  in  his  kind  voice. 

Stephen  rose  and  took  his  hat  from  the  table.  He  was  de- 
pressed and  intensely  nervous.  Mayne's  large  body  and  the 
superintendent's  sympathy  and  Dr.  Good's  bright,  observant 
eyes  irritated  him. 

"She's  to  have,  of  course,  every  possible  attention.  You  have 
Professor  Mayne's  address  and  mine." 

"We  make  weekly  reports  unless  we  are  directed  otherwise. 
In  case  of  an  unusual  development  we  should  telephone  you. 
You  understand.  Dr.  Lanfair,  that  Mrs.  Lanfair's  attitude  to- 
ward you  is  a  part  of  her  malady?" 

"I  understand  perfectly." 

At  the  door  Mayne  and  Stephen  bade  one  another  good-bye. 
Both  remembered  a  thin,  eager  boy  with  a  black  band  on  his 
gray  sleeve  and  a  short,  slender,  black-eyed  girl. 

"It's  hard  on  you,  Stephen." 

"And  on  you." 


188  ELLEN  LEVIS 

Stephen  stepped  into  his  car  beside  Fickes.  For  a  while  he 
stared  at  the  floor,  his  arms  folded,  his  mind  a  blank.  Gradually 
the  expression  of  his  eyes  changed,  the  pupils  darkened.  There 
waited  for  him  at  the  hospital  a  woman  who  had  hastened  a 
slow  fire  with  coal  oil;  the  problem  was  even  more  difficult  than 
that  of  Mrs.  Fetzer,  but  he  had  determined  to  solve  it.  He 
planned  a  course  of  treatment.  He  would  offer  to  take  the  next 
twenty  burned  cases  at  the  hospital. 

Presently  he  lifted  his  head  and  glanced  about  at  a  landscape 
which  recalled  his  visit  to  Edward  Levis  —  was  it  two  years  or 
ten  since  he  had  made  his  sudden  descent  upon  him?  Here  was 
a  friend!  He  believed  that  he  could  even  tell  Levis  his  troubles; 
it  would  do  him  good.  He  sat  a  little  more  erectly. 

Then  suddenly  an  electric  thrill  passed  through  his  body.  He 
was  free !  Tears  pressed  upon  his  eyelids  —  he  turned  his  head 
so  that  Fickes  might  not  see  them  —  tears  of  profound  relief. 
What  anxiety  and  torment  had  been  his!  And  it  was  past,  de- 
cently past,  and  he  had  played  the  part  of  a  man  throughout. 
Moreover,  no  public  shame,  no  irremediable  disaster  had  termi- 
nated the  nightmare.  Hilda's  valedictory  was  heard  by  only  a  few 
persons,  —  her  uncle,  Dr.  Good,  Fetzer,  upon  whose  devotion 
he  could  stake  all  that  he  had  in  the  world,  and  this  unknown 
but  apparently  trustworthy  creature  through  whose  quickness 
a  serious  calamity  had  been  avoided.  He  would  tell  Miss  Knowl- 
ton  and  Miss  MacVane  where  Hilda  was,  and  he  would  inform 
a  few  of  the  older  friends  whom  she  had  inherited  from  her 
parents,  and  to  whom  she  had  paid  an  indifferent  attention; 
then  all  would  be  concluded  except  the  pitiful  end  of  her  poor 
hfe. 

They  had  begun  to  descend  the  hill  toward  the  Kloster,  and 
Stephen  looked  at  it  curiously.  When  he  visited  Levis  they 
would  come  over  here  and  prowl  about.  Ah,  there  were  a  thou- 
sand things  to  do  in  the  world,  a  thousand  places  to  visit !  Hilda 
had  liked  only  main-traveled  roads  on  which  there  were  theaters 
and  shops;  they  had  never  seen  the  interesting  countries,  the 
Far  North,  the  tropics,  Ceylon,  Carcassone,  the  church  of  Brou, 
the  Far  East.  He  was  able  to  smile  at  the  old  white-bearded  man 
pottering  about  among  the  graves  in  the  cemetery  of  the  Kloster, 
as  though  he  smiled  at  Time  himself. 


ELLEN  LEVIS  189 

Opening  the  door  of  his  office  he  found  Miss  Knowlton  and 
Miss  Mac  Vane  and  went  at  once  to  work.  There  were  a  dozen 
patients  waiting,  and  as  many  to  be  informed  that  he  had  re- 
turned. Miss  Knowlton  smiled  at  Miss  Mac  Vane  when  he  began 
to  prescribe  for  a  patient  whose  treatment  would  be  extended. 
He  meant  evidently  to  stay.  But  at  other  times  he  had  meant 
to  stay  and  had  been  persuaded  to  go  away.  When  he  said  that 
Hilda  was  in  the  King  Sanatorium  they  expressed  their  regret 
and  went  on  with  their  work.  They  were  conscientious  souls  and 
both  felt  a  vague  self-reproach. 

When  he  had  had  his  dinner  he  returned  to  his  office.  But  he 
was  tired;  he  would  go  for  a  walk.  The  night  was  clear,  the  air 
soft,  and  the  river  reflected  the  stars.  He  ran  up  to  his  room, 
where  he  found  his  housemaid  engaged  in  laying  back  the  covers 
of  his  bed.  Ellen  expected  to  go  out  and  she  had  coiled  her  hair 
on  top  of  her  head  in  the  transforming  fashion  condemned  by 
Fetzer.  She  looked  up  and  answered  Stephen's  "Good-evening" 
with  a  bright  flush.  Her  heart  beat  quickly;  it  seemed  to  her 
now  that  it  was  never  quiet.  Stephen  looked  at  her,  confused, 
as  though  she  were  a  stranger. 

"It's  a  warm  night,  is  n't  it.^" 

"Yes,"  said  Ellen,  "but  there'll  be  a  breeze  from  the  river." 

"Are  you  fond  of  the  river?" 

"It  gets  to  seem  like  a  friend." 

She  smiled  and  moved  toward  the  door.  She  had  learned  her 
lesson  well;  while  she  was  a  housemaid  she  would  do  as  house- 
maids did  —  or  should.  She  carried  with  her  now  a  pleasant 
anticipation  —  she  had  changed  her  mind,  some  day  she  would 
tell  Stephen  w^ho  she  was.  But  the  time  was  not  yet  ripe.  In  the 
doorway  she  paused. 

"Would  you  like  me  to  move  your  bed  to  the  bay-window 
each  evening?" 

Stephen  was  watching  her  free  walk  and  her  straight  shoulders 
and  wishing  for  some  young  creature  to  walk  and  talk  with, 
some  boy  or  girl  like  this. 

"Did  you  speak  to  me?" 

She  repeated  her  question. 

"O,  thank  you;  I'll  do  that  when  I  want  to  sleep  there." 

He  decided  not  to  walk;  he  would  call  on  Dr.  and  Mrs.  Salter 


190  ELLEN  LEVIS 

and  tell  them  about  Hilda  and  ask  them  to  tell  certain  other 
persons.  It  was  a  duty  which  seemed  suddenly  pressing. 

He  continued  through  the  spring  to  work  all  day  and  a  part  of 
the  night.  He  had  never  felt  more  alert;  after  a  while  he  attrib- 
uted his  alertness  to  freedom  from  anxiety.  What  might  a  man 
not  accomplish  under  circumstances  which  were  entirely  favor- 
able —  with  health  and  fortune  and  domestic  happiness? 

It  was  with  a  sense  of  amusement  that  he  found  himself  think- 
ing presently  of  the  one  creature  in  his  house  who  was  young. 
It  was  pleasant  to  meet  her  once  or  twice  a  day  and  see  the  color 
deepen  in  her  cheeks.  He  did  not  realize  that  it  was  meeting 
him  which  made  her  flush;  it  was  simply  that  she  had  color 
which  came  and  went  easily.  She  was  always  quiet,  always  un- 
obstrusive,  always  low-voiced.  She  smiled,  but  he  had  never 
heard  her  laugh. 

He  began  to  be  curious  about  her,  but  he  asked  no  questions 
either  of  her  or  of  Fetzer.  He  would  learn,  of  course,  that  she 
was  merely  a  dull  country  girl  and  the  impression  of  intelligence 
given  by  a  single  instance  of  quick-wittedness  would  vanish 
when  she  began  to  talk.  She  seemed  to  have  within  her  some 
spring  of  interest  or  satisfaction,  but  he  could  not  guess  what  it 
was.  But  dull  or  not,  she  was  very  lovely. 

Then  one  warm,  bright  night  when  sleeping  seemed  a  waste 
of  time,  Stephen  found  his  narrow  bed  pushed  to  the  window. 
He  smiled;  then  suddenly  he  grew  pale  and  turned  on  his  heel 
and  began  to  walk  up  and  down  the  room.  He  folded  his  arms 
across  his  breast  as  though  to  hold  by  force  some  leaping  savage, 
unrighteous,  thing.  He  was  not  so  much  appalled  as  astounded. 
He  went  down  to  his  office  and  brought  up  Farmingham  on  the 
Muscles  of  the  Eye.  At  three  o'clock  he  laid  the  book  down  and 
turned  out  his  light,  smiling  a  little  weakly  at  himself.  He  re- 
fused to  connect  this  absurdity  with  any  individual;  he  believed 
it  was  an  effect  of  too  close  application  to  work. 

In  a  third-story  room  neatly  arranged  was  the  overflow  of  his 
professional  library,  pamphlets  and  magazines  which  waited 
binding,  and  books  which  had  passed  their  usefulness,  but  which 
he  might  still  need  for  reference.  On  the  day  after  his  vigil, 
going  thither  to  find  a  pamphlet,  he  passed  Fetzer's  room  and 
came  to  the  door  of  Ellen's  room.  There  he  saw  Ellen's  little 


ELLEN  LEVIS  191 

bed,  her  table  with  its  books,  its  neatly  sharpened  pencils,  its 
vase  of  jflowers.  All  was  sweet  and  virginal  and  childlike.  He  re- 
membered that  Fetzer  had  said  long  ago  that  the  girl  studied; 
he  was  curious  about  her  studies.  He  stepped  in  and  lifted  the 
three  books  from  the  table.  The  first  was  a  geometry,  the  second 
a  general  history,  the  third  a  copy  of  "Vanity  Fair"  from  his 
library.  In  the  geometry  lay  several  sheets  of  paper  covered 
with  neat  triangles  and  circles. 

He  found  his  pamphlet  and  went  downstairs  slow^ly.  He  was 
indebted  to  this  girl  who  had  helped  him  in  a  hard  place.  Did 
she  wish  more  education?  —  if  so  there  was  no  reason  why  her 
ambition  should  not  be  gratified.  He  was  positive  now  that  she 
was  superior  to  her  present  situation.  His  savings  were  large  and 
his  income  constantly  increasing;  it  would  be  pleasant  to  help 
an  ambitious  student.  A  comfortable  philanthropic  glow  quite 
banished  his  lingering  disgust  at  last  night's  unpleasant  ex- 
perience. 

After  dinner  he  rang  for  Ellen,  who  came  to  his  study  a  little 
frightened.  She  had  changed  her  black  uniform  for  a  white 
dress.  Stephen  knew  her  straight  shoulders  and  her  free  step, 
but  he  had  never  realized  quite  the  depth  of  her  gaze  when  her 
eyes  were  squarely  encountered. 

"Sit  down,  Ellen." 

Ellen  took  the  chair  indicated  to  her.  The  .light  shone  full  on 
her  dark  hair  and  her  round  chin  and  white  neck.  Something 
stirred  again  in  Stephen's  breast. 

"Fetzer  tells  me  you're  a  student." 

"Yes,"  answered  Ellen,  blushing. 

"What  do  you  study.?" 

"Geometry  and  history  and  English  and  other  subjects." 

"Why  do  you  study?" 

"I'm  going  to  college." 

"Oh,  you  are!  When?" 

"  In  September  —  that  is,  if  I  can  make  certain  arrangements." 

"What  arrangements?" 

"If  I  can  pass  the  examinations.  Miss  MacVane  thinks  I  can 
enter  the  Sophomore  class.  I  'm  arranging  to  borrow  a  little  from 
a  fund  for  students  who  need  help." 

"Why  are  you  going  to  college?"  Stephen  leaned  forward  in 


192  ELLEN  LEVIS 

his  chair.  His  interest  in  her  quickened.  To  borrow  from  a 
fund,  was  she? 

*'I  mean  to  be  a  doctor." 

"A  doctor!"  Had  Fetzer  announced  her  intention  of  being 
an  aviator,  he  would  have  been  no  more  surprised.  *'Why  a 
doctor?" 

"My  father  meant  to  educate  me  to  be  a  doctor  as  he  was." 
Then  Ellen  leaned  forward,  her  lips  trembling.  She  could  keep 
her  secret  no  longer  —  her  heart  seemed  to  burst  with  it.  "Don't 
you  remember  me  at  all?" 

Stephen  looked  curiously  into  Ellen's  face  and  thought  of  the 
hundreds  of  patients  in  hospital  and  office.  But  even  though 
there  had  been  hundreds  he  seldom  forgot  the  eyes  which  he 
treated  —  certainly  not  such  eyes  as  these ! 

"Were  you  ever  a  patient  of  mine?" 

Ellen  shook  her  head;  he  could  see  her  lips  tremble.  She 
seemed  to  be  unliappy  because  he  did  not  remember  her !  What 
an  extraordinary  experience!  He  had  never  been  more  puzzled 
or  more  charmed. 

"Ellen  Lewis  is  your  name,  Fetzer  said.  Is  that  right?" 

"Ellen  Levis  is  my  name.  They  call  me  Lewis  when  they  can't 
say  V.'" 

Still  he  stared  without  comprehension.  Ellen  grew  pale  with 
distress.  Was  she  the  victim  of  an  hallucination?" 

"Don't  you  remember  now?'' 

"No."  It  was  Stephen's  turn  to  believe  that  some  form  of 
aphasia  had  blotted  out  a  part  of  his  past. 

"You  came  to  see  my  father  the  day  he  died,  you  and  Mrs. 
Lanfair." 

Stephen  frowned;  his  lifted  hand  covered  his  lips;  then  he 
leaned  backward  into  the  shadow.  He  was  shocked  beyond  ex- 
pression. 

"Not  Edward  Levis!"  said  he,  at  last  quietly. 

"Yes." 

"You  were  the  young  girl  who  begged  us  to  stay  to  supper? 
You  were  studying  with  your  father  and  you  had  a  little  table 
by  the  window?" 

"Yes." 

"Your  father  is  n't  dead!" 


ELLEN  LEVIS  193 

"He  died  that  evening  of  heart  trouble." 

"How  do  you  happen  to  be  here?"  asked  Stephen  sharply. 

"I  wanted  to  earn  my  living." 

"Had  your  father  no  property?" 

"I'm  not  of  age." 

"WTiy  did  n't  you  go  on  to  college?" 

"My  grandfather  and  my  brother  thought  I  had  enough  edu- 
cation, and  the  farm  was  run  down  and  my  brother  thought  the 
income  should  go  to  improving  it." 

"Did  they  drive  you  away?" 

"Oh,  no!  I  came  of  my  free  will.  They  thought  what  they 
did  was  right.  It  happened  to  suit  Matthew's  plans  for  the  farm, 
but  he  would  have  done  right  even  if  it  had  inconvenienced  him." 

"Did  you  expect  to  earn  enough  to  go  to  college  in  a  house- 
maid's position?" 

"No;  but  I  earned  something  and  I  had  a  little.  Then  Miss 
Mac  Vane  encouraged  me  —  she  had  nothing,  and  yet  she  went 
to  college." 

"How  did  you  happen  to  come  here?  Did  Fetzer  advertise?" 

"No,"  answered  Ellen  with  difficulty.  "My  father  and  I 
passed  here  and  he  stopped  and  looked  at  your  house.  I  came  to 
look  at  it  one  day  because  it  reminded  me  of  him.  I  was  very 
forlorn.  I  think  I  was  crying  and  I  crossed  the  street  in  front 
of  an  automobile  and  was  struck  and  Mrs.  Fetzer  befriended 
me." 

"When  did  you  recognize  me?'* 

"When  you  came  home." 

"Why  did  n't  you  speak?" 

"I  could  n't." 

"Did  your  father  ever  speak  of  me?" 

"He  wanted  to  make  you  executor  of  his  will,  but  he  could  n't 
complete  it." 

"Why  did  n't  you  find  me?" 

"I  could  n't  remember  your  name." 

Stephen  leaned  his  chin  upon  his  hand.  He  looked  through 
Ellen  at  some  object  far  beyond  her.  He  saw  a  bare  room  in  a 
dingy  old  house  in  Philadelphia,  an  old  desk  and  his  own  head 
bent  in  remorse  above  it.  He  had  been  grateful,  Heaven  bore 
witness,  for  a  while. 


194  ELLEN  LEVIS 

*'So  you  have  everything  arranged?"  he  said  at  last. 

"Yes." 

"And  you  are  happy?" 

"Yes.  I've  quite  forgotten  how  unhappy  and  forlorn  I  used 
to  be." 

"The  prospect  of  studying  delights  you?" 

"Yes."  Ellen  lifted  her  eyes  to  his.  "I  used  to  think  that 
learning  was  everything,  but  I  've  found  that  it  is  n't.  One  needs 
satisfaction  for  the  mind,  but  one  needs  satisfaction  for  the 
heart  also.  It  seemed  to  me  that  I  had  nobody." 

Stephen  rose  and  went  to  the  side  of  his  desk  and  stood  lean- 
ing upon  it  and  looking  down  at  Ellen. 

"And  you  feel  that  now  you  have  somebody?" 

"Yes.  I'm  older  and  more  sensible  and  I  realize  that  Grand- 
father and  Matthew  are  fond  of  me  even  though  we  think 
differently." 

"And  is  this  understanding  of  their  affection  sufficient  food 
for  the  heart?" 

Ellen's  look  was  still  straightforward,  but  her  cheeks  crim- 
soned. Fetzer  would  wonder  where  she  stayed.  She  rose  and 
stood  before  him. 

"No." 

"What  else  have  you?" 

"  I  have  you,"  answered  Ellen  simply. 

At  that  Stephen  put  his  hand  under  Ellen's  soft  chin  and 
lifted  her  head.  She  smiled  at  him,  and  when  Ellen  smiled  she 
invited  unconsciously  more  of  a  caress  than  a  mere  touch  of 
hand.  But  he  did  not  move  and  she  turned  her  cheek  a  little 
against  the  warm  palm,  then  went  away.  Her  cup  of  happiness 
was  full.  Her  father's  desires  had  hitherto  been  her  law;  she  had 
now  another  law. 

For  a  moment  Stephen  stood  motionless  beside  his  desk,  then 
he  began  to  walk  up  and  down.  What  an  extraordinary  chance! 
He  began  to  lay  plans.  She  must  come  down  out  of  her  attic; 
she  must  wait  no  more  upon  him.  Fetzer  and  Miss  Mac  Vane 
and  Miss  Knowlton  must  be  told  at  once  who  she  was,  and 
there  must  be  no  slighting  of  her  because  she  had  done  this 
lowly  work.  One  of  his  favorite  occupations  in  periods  of  en- 
forced idleness  in  trains  or  on  steamers  had  been  the  construe- 


ELLEN  LEVIS  195 

tion  of  various  schemes  of  education  based  upon  what  he  felt 
were  the  deficiencies  of  his  own.  He  would  see  what  could  be 
done  with  this  girl. 

Presently  he  paused  and  stood  for  a  long  time  motionless  by 
his  desk.  Levis  dead!  There  had  been  hunger  in  Levis's  eyes, 
hunger  which  he  might  have  satisfied.  But  no  reproach  should 
rest  upon  him  henceforth;  he  would  do  all  for  this  girl  that 
Levis  could  have  done,  perhaps  he  might  do  more.  He  would 
atone.  It  was  a  moment  of  pure  philanthropy,  unalloyed  by  any 
less  exalted  impulse. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

A  VISIT  TO  EPHRATA 

In  late  September  Matthew  began  to  cut  the  corn  in  the  field 
which  he  had  ploughed  a  year  ago  when  Ellen  went  away.  He 
began  early  in  the  morning  and  worked  doggedly  and  alone. 
The  next  day  he  would  have  help,  but  to-day  he  rejoiced  —  if 
so  bright  a  word  could  describe  his  state  of  mind  —  in  his  lone- 
liness. He  breathed  heavily;  he  was  angry  and  mortified.  His 
life  had  not  turned  out  as  he  had  expected;  he  had  made,  it  was 
now  perfectly  clear,  a  basic  error  from  the  effect  of  which  he 
should  never  escape.  He  had  always  believed  that  one  could 
direct  one's  life  and  that  so  intelligent  a  person  as  himself  could 
direct  it  successfully,  but  he  had  been  mistaken. 

He  had  chosen  his  wife  with  impeccable  judgment  —  she  was 
pretty  and  quiet  and  domestic  and  religious  and  troubled  by  no 
unbecoming  ambition.  She  was  still  all  of  these,  but  each  quality 
had  been  modified  in  some  unexpected  way.  Her  prettiness  was 
spoiled  by  untidiness;  her  quietness  was  only  quietness  in  com- 
parison with  the  clatter  of  her  family;  her  housewifely  accom- 
plishments proved  slighter  than  he  had  expected;  and  her  reli- 
gion was,  though  he  did  not  realize  it,  a  good  deal  like  his  own, 
a  possession  for  eternity,  but  of  little  practical  use  in  this  life. 

She  had  slipped  back  quickly  into  the  idioms  which  she  had 
once  tried  to  weed  from  her  speech  in  order  to  please  him,  and 
little  Matthew  who  was  learning  to  talk  copied  her.  About  this 
subject  she  had  already  quarreled  with  her  husband  whom  she 
accused  of  being  ashamed  of  her. 

He  had  not  reckoned  upon  the  physical  depression  which 
accompanies  the  bearing  of  children  of  whom  there  were  now 
two.  Millie  was  preoccupied  with  her  sensations;  she  was  con- 
stantly on  the  watch  for  fresh  symptoms  which  she  retailed  to 
whoever  would  listen.  The  description  of  her  morning  miseries 
greeted  Matthew's  opening  eyes;  the  account  of  her  evening 
faintness  kept  him  awake  at  the  end  of  a  weary  day.  She  implied 
that  for  all  her  troubles  he  was  to  blame;  a  bride  married  by 


ELLEN  LEVIS  197 

capture  could  have  uttered  a  no  more  triumphant  "Whose  fault 
is  it?" 

From  the  pressure  of  unpleasant  conditions  Matthew  was 
free  only  when  he  was  in  the  fields.  Domestic  activities  were 
now  carried  on,  except  for  sleep,  in  the  kitchen,  and  there  on 
cold  evenings  even  preparations  for  sleep  were  made.  The 
fashion  in  which  he  had  been  brought  up  came  to  possess  for 
him  a  moral  and  religious  significance.  When  he  remembered 
his  youth  —  and  he  remembered  it  more  and  more  often  —  he 
saw  his  father  working  at  his  desk,  a  mouselike  Ellen  by  the 
window,  Mrs.  Sassaman  busy  with  her  tasks  in  a  distant  kitchen, 
and  himself  in  his  own  room.  Each  might  have  if  he  wished  the 
privacy  which  was  an  inalienable  right,  the  solitude  in  which 
mind  and  soul  could  grow. 

Though  Esther  was  at  present  away,  she  had  become  a  fixture 
in  the  house.  She  liked  the  freedom  and  the  wages  and  she  pre* 
f erred  Millie's  company  to  that  of  her  other  sisters.  She  was 
certain  that  Matthew  wished  her  gone,  but  his  dislike  did  not 
trouble  her;  she  knew  that  he  feared  her  departure  while  he 
desired  it.  She  had  left  once,  and  Matthew,  with  harvesting 
waiting,  had  done  the  washing. 

He  had  repented  his  insolence  to  his  grandfather  and  had  been 
forgiven  by  him,  but  he  was  not  at  peace,  though  he  went  regu- 
larly to  church.  He  had  confidently  expected  that  God  would 
smooth  his  path  when  he  so  earnestly  besought  Him,  and  in- 
stead his  path  seemed  to  be  growing  each  day  rougher. 

When  in  the  middle  of  the  afternoon  Ellen  came  up  the  sloping 
road  outside  the  field,  he  did  not  recognize  her.  She  wore  a 
changed  aspect,  the  appearance  of  one  intensely  preoccupied 
with  pleasant  thoughts.  He  saw  her  wave  her  hand,  and  in  the 
light  of  Millie's  prejudices  believed  that  she  was  some  bold 
creature  beckoning  to  him.  When  she  slipped  between  two  fence 
posts  he  knew  her  with  a  pang.  He  did  not  go  to  meet  her,  but 
stood  bending  forward  a  little  until  she  reached  to  her  full 
height  to  kiss  his  cheek.  He  had  often  accepted  her  kisses  as 
though  they  were  an  infliction;  now  they  brought  tears. 

"Well,  Matthew!" 

He  looked  down  at  her,  recognizing  the  change  in  her  state  of 
mind;  she  felt  herself  to  be,  it  was  plain,  fortunate  and  happy. 


198  ELLEN  LEVIS 

He  had  made  up  his  mind  that  when  she  returned  she  should 
not  be  received  like  a  prodigal  but  now  her  expression  made 
clear  that  she  was  not  a  prodigal  in  any  sense. 

"You've  surprised  me!"  he  said,  astonished  at  his  own 
delight. 

"Are  you  glad  to  see  me?"  Ellen  looked  at  him  almost 
coquettishly. 

"Yes,"  he  answered  with  a  deep  breath.  Then  in  the  midst  of 
his  pleasure  he  was  discomfited.  She  might  stay  to  supper,  and 
a  welcome  was  doubtful.  The  secondary  cause  of  all  Millie's 
woes  was  Ellen. 

"  Can't  you  stop  work  a  little  while  and  sit  down  in  the  woods 
and  talk  to  me?" 

"Yes,"  said  Matthew. 

The  oak  trees,  whose  foliage  was  now  a  dark  red,  were  but  a 
step  away  and  the  two  sat  side  by  side  on  the  old  log.  There  was 
between  them  the  most  astonishing  contrast.  Matthew's  youth- 
ful beauty  was  gone;  his  skin  was  tanned  to  a  darker  shade  than 
his  light  hair;  he  did  not  sit  erect  and  he  was  unshaven;  but 
more  startling  was  his  air  of  weariness  and  dullness.  He  looked 
ten  years  older  than  Ellen  and  seemed  to  belong  to  a  different 
race.  She  laid  her  hand  on  his  knee. 

"I  have  a  long  story  to  tell  you." 

"Well?"  Matthew's  eyes  devoured  her.  He  was  bewildered 
and  made  uneasy  by  his  delight.  He  wished  to  gather  her  into 
his  arms  and  lean  his  head  on  her  shoulder. 

"Do  you  remember  the  day  that  Father  died?'* 

"Of  course." 

"That  afternoon  I  was  sitting  here  reading  and  I  looked  up 
and  saw  an  automobile  standing  before  the  door.  When  I  went 
down  an  old  friend  of  Father's  was  in  the  office.  Dr.  Lanfair, 
with  his  wife.  They  stayed  only  a  little  while,  and  soon  after 
they  went  away  Father  became  ill.  He  wanted  me  to  give  a 
message  to  Dr.  Lanfair.  Do  you  remember  that,  Matthew?" 

"  Yes,"  answered  Matthew  uneasily. 

"But  I  could  n't  remember  his  name.  Last  fall  I  got  a  place 
accidentally  at  his  house.  I  wrote  you  how  I  had  been  struck  by 
an  automobile.  But  I  did  n't  know  then  who  he  was.  I  had  all 
arrangements  made  to  go  to  college,  but  now  he  wishes  to  help 


ELLEN  LEVIS  199 

me  because  of  his  old  friendship  for  Father.  I  'm  all  ready  and  I 
wanted  to  see  you  before  I  left." 

Matthew  received  this  announcement  in  silence.  She  cher- 
ished no  resentment;  that  was  one  of  her  notable  characteristics. 

Ellen  read  his  thoughts. 

"I  understand  everything,  Matthew.  You  did  what  you 
thought  was  right,  and  you  have  certainly  improved  the  farm. 
Is  n't  it  lovely  here?" 

Matthew  made  no  answer.  A  dull  red  crept  up  under  the  un- 
pleasant growth  of  beard. 

"I  heard  you  had  another  little  boy." 

Thus  recalled  to  his  domestic  ties  he  rose  stiffly  and  hastily. 
A  late  guest  would  be  unpardonable.  "We'd  better  walk  down 
to  the  house." 

Sometimes  consciously,  sometimes  unconsciously,  Ellen 
smoothed  the  paths  of  others. 

"You  need  n't  go  down  now;  I'll  go  alone.  After  supper,  can 
you  come  with  me  to  see  Grandfather.^" 

"Yes." 

He  walked  with  her  to  the  opening  between  the  two  posts; 
then  he  did  not  return  to  his  work,  but  went  back  to  the  log  and 
sat  down.  She  was  but  a  few  years  younger  than  he,  but  she  was 
youthful,  free,  unburdened,  her  life  was  just  beginning.  Edu- 
cation had  not  hurt  her.  For  the  first  time  a  serious  doubt  of  his 
own  wisdom  troubled  him.  He  also  for  the  first  time  experienced 
jealousy  —  he  did  not  wish  any  one  but  himself  to  help  Ellen. 

His  thoughts  followed  her  down  the  hill.  He  hoped  that  Millie 
would  be  polite.  He  saw  Millie  through  the  eyes  of  an  outsider 
such  as  Ellen  had  become,  her  ignorance,  her  dullness,  her  stub- 
bornness. He  was  at  this  moment  all  Levis. 

Like  Matthew,  Millie  did  not  at  first  recognize  Ellen.  She  al- 
ways thought  of  her  as  a  forlorn  person,  but  this  was  no  forlorn 
person  who  stood  at  the  door.  She  believed  at  first  that  Ellen 
was  some  sort  of  agent,  but  after  a  moment's  curious  contempla- 
tion she  said,  "Well,  is  it  you!" 

Then  she  was  silent.  She  saw  the  beautiful  suit  and  hat  and 
compared  Ellen's  appearance  with  her  own,  her  straggling  hair 
and  her  dark  calico  dress,  open  at  the  throat  since  she  had  last 
nursed  her  baby. 


200  ELLEN  LEVIS 

"You  would  never  have  caught  me  like  this  before  I  was 
married!"  she  cried,  expressing  in  her  tone  all  her  weariness  and 
bitterness. 

Ellen's  cheek  lost  its  bright  color.  She  was  not  an  analyst  of 
character  and  she  had  never  looked  forward  to  Millie's  future 
and  prophesied,  "Thus  she  will  become." 

"Come  in,"  said  Millie  as  though  in  defiance  of  a  critical  eye. 

Ellen  saw  a  solemn  little  Matthew  sitting  on  the  floor  and  a 
much  smaller  John  in  a  cradle  which  was  none  too  tidy.  She  saw, 
also,  without  looking  at  them  directly,  a  littered  sink,  a  soiled 
table-cover,  an  unblacked  stove,  and  windows  unwashed  for 
weeks.  Looking  at  little  Matthew  she  began  to  tremble,  remem- 
bering how  her  arms  had  once  ached  to  hold  him. 

"Matthew  is  a  big  boy.  And  what  a  lovely  baby!" 

Millie's  maternal  ecstasy  had  burned  itself  to  a  dull  flame. 

"Perhaps  you  would  n't  think  so  if  you  had  to  take  care  of 
him  day  and  night!" 

She  accepted  Ellen's  offer  of  help  with  an  air  which  said  that 
since  she  was  going  to  stay  it  was  no  more  than  right  that  she 
should  lend  a  hand,  and  Ellen  bravely  put  on  a  soiled  apron. 
Millie  had  had  no  one  to  talk  to  in  the  week  of  Esther's  absence, 
and  now  the  failings  of  Brother  Reith  were  commented  upon 
and  much  neighborhood  gossip  retailed. 

"It's  the  women  who  run  after  him.  They  are  partly  to 
blame!"  explained  Millie. 

When  Matthew  arrived  he  breathed  a  sigh  of  relief.  He  was 
sure  that  he  had  heard  Millie  laugh,  though  at  sight  of  him  she 
lost  her  good  nature.  She  began  to  ask  questions  about  Ellen's 
affairs  and  pried  deeper  than  Matthew. 

"How  old  is  this  man  who  is  helping  you,  Ellen .f^  Is  he  an  old 
man?" 

"He  was  a  schoolmate  of  Father's,  but  he  is  younger  than 
Father  was." 

"Is  his  wife  living?" 

"Yes,"  said  Ellen.  "But  she 'snot  well;  she 'sin  a  sanatorium." 

"What  ails  her?" 

"She  has  lost  her  mind." 

A  look  of  significant  amusement  passed  from  Millie  to  Mat- 
thew, who  stared  back  furiously  and  pulled  his  chair  to  the 


ELLEN  LEVIS  201 

table.  He  had  thought  of  driving  in  the  double  carriage  and 
taking  the  whole  family  to  visit  Grandfather,  but  now  he 
changed  his  mind.  He  would  no  more  have  Millie  share  his  ride 
with  Ellen  than  he  would  three  years  ago  have  had  Ellen  share 
his  ride  with  Millie.  When  he  had  finished  eating  he  immediately 
hitched  his  horse  to  the  buggy  and  drove  to  the  door,  and  Ellen 
climbed  in  beside  him.  She  did  not  kiss  Millie  nor  did  Millie 
ofiPer  to  kiss  her. 

For  the  first  half-mile  brother  and  sister  were  silent  and  busy 
with  recollection.  Suddenly  Matthew  breathed  a  long  sigh. 

"I  could  help  you  with  money  before  you  get  your  inherit- 
ance," he  said  in  a  low  tone. 

*'0h,  thank  you!"  Ellen  did  not  remember  the  long  post- 
poning, she  saw  only  the  yielding.  "It  isn't  necessary  now, 
everything  is  arranged.  Next  summer,  though,  when  I'm 
twenty-one  — " 

*'Then  of  course  everything  will  be  fixed  properly." 

Close  together  she  and  Matthew  went  through  the  graveyard. 
She  slipped  her  hand  into  his  and  he  did  not  thrust  it  away.  The 
sun  had  set  and  the  cottage  was  in  shadow. 

"Here  is  Ellen,  Grandfather,"  said  Matthew  as  he  opened  the 
door. 

Ellen  stepped  into  the  little  room.  The  moment  of  reunion 
had  come  unexpectedly.  Grandfather  raised  his  beautiful  aged 
head  and  looked  at  her,  and  Amos  got  to  his  feet.  Tears  began 
to  run  down  Grandfather's  cheeks;  Amos  said  nothing,  but  a 
crimson  flush  burned  his  face.  All  were  conscious  of  her  youth 
and  her  vitality  and  all  realized  that  she  was  not  theirs. 

"She's  here  to  say  good-bye,"  explained  Matthew.  "She's 
going  to  college." 

Grandfather  saw  his  castle  at  last  flat  upon  the  ground.  Amos 
leaped  to  swift,  jealous  inquiry.  How  was  Ellen  going  to  college.^ 
Who  was  helping  her.^  How  did  she  get  her  fine  clothes?  But 
neither  Grandfather  nor  Amos  asked  any  questions. 

When  Matthew  had  seen  the  dim  red  light  at  the  end  of  the 
train  grow  tinier  and  then  vanish  into  the  darkness,  he  returned 
to  the  Kloster.  He  did  not  wish  to  go  home;  his  rage  with  Millie 
frightened  him;  he  would  hear  only  complaints  against  Ellen 
and  if  he  defended  her  the  effect  would  be  disastrous.  He  re- 


202  ELLEN  LEVIS 

gretted  now  the  whole  course  of  his  Hfe  since  he  had  risen  in 
meeting  and  announced  his  intentions,  and  he  blamed  all  on  the 
influence  of  his  grandfather.  He  remembered  Grandfather's 
ridiculous  charge  that  he  had  been  hard  on  Ellen.  He  remem- 
bered also  Amos's  burning  eyes.  He  opened  the  door  of  the  cot- 
tage and  sat  down. 

"I  expect  there  was  something  more  in  Ellen's  going  than 
appeared  on  the  surface,"  he  said  without  any  preface.  "I  expect 
that  you  annoyed  her,  Amos." 

"Annoyed  her.^  In  what  way?" 

"I  expect  that  Millie  was  more  than  half  right,"  said  Mat- 
thew distinctly.  *'I  expect  that  you  annoyed  her  with  offers  of 
love." 

Amos  rose,  his  face  deathly  pale. 

"I'm  older  than  you,  Matthew,  and  I've  been  your  teacher 
and  your  adviser,  but  I  shall  answer  this  insult  for  Ellen's  sake. 
I  told  her  long  before  she  went  away  that  if  marrying  would 
help  her  escape  from  you,  I  would  — " 

"Escape!"  repeated  Matthew. 

"That's  the  word  I  used  —  escape.  I  said  if  it  would  help  her 
to  escape  I  would  marry  her.  It  was  months  ago.  I  talked  to  her 
only  once  when  I  met  her  by  chance.  I  had  nothing  to  do  with 
her  going  away.  It  was  I  who  tried  to  keep  her  here!"  Amos's 
voice  rose.  "  Levis  was  right  in  a  sense  —  you  know  nothing 
about  the  world,  you  nor  Uncle.  But  I  know  what  the  world  is 
like  that  you  have  driven  her  into.  I  was  the  only  one  that  tried 
to  save  her,  remember  that,  please!  Your  affection  for  her  is 
selfish.  You  would  have  liked  to  keep  her  so  that  all  would  run 
smoothly  in  your  house,  and  when  you  can't  have  your  way  with 
her  you  drive  her  off  —  out  you  go,  Ellen !  I  love  her  unselfishly, 
I  don't  expect  to  get  anything  out  of  her,  I  — " 

"Nor  did  I  expect  to  get  anything  out  of  Ellen,"  protested 
Grandfather. 

Matthew  began  to  shout. 

"You  did!  You  wanted  her  to  start  a  sisterhood  and  to  stay 
in  this  worn-out  place.  You  wanted  her  to  come  here  and  live 
with  bats  and  mice  and  dress  in  strange  clothes  and  cut  off  her 
hair  and  whistle  through  her  teeth  as  they  used  to  do  "  —  now 
the  devil  surely  had  possession  of  Matthew!  —  "I  never  wanted 


ELLEN  LEVIS  203 

her  to  do  anything  like  that.  You  talk  as  though  she  belonged  to 
you.  I  am  closest  to  her." 

"Matthew! "  warned  Grandfather. 

"It's  true."  Matthew  rose.  "You've  ruined  me  with  your 
religion,  ruined  me,  ruined  me!" 

"What!"  cried  Grandfather,  aghast. 

"You  think  you  have  God  here.  I  don't  believe  in  God!" 
Matthew  slammed  the  door. 

In  his  buggy  he  was  tempted  to  lash  his  horse,  but  that  would 
bring  him  home  the  sooner.  It  was  out  at  last,  the  dreadful  con- 
clusion he  had  been  approaching  for  a  long  time.  It  was  said 
aloud  and  he  was  not  struck  dead.  He  laughed  like  a  drunken 
man. 

Then,  at  the  top  of  the  hill,  he  heard  a  sound  and  paused.  A 
great  wind  had  begun  to  blow  and  the  oak  trees  were  roaring  like 
the  sea.  It  seemed  to  him  that  there  was  a  message  for  him,  but 
he  could  not  interpret  it.  He  felt  suddenly  weak  and  leaned 
against  the  side  of  the  buggy. 

In  the  cottage  Grandfather  lifted  his  hands  toward  heaven. 
The  hope  of  his  sisterhood  was  definitely  ended,  and  now  the 
prop  of  his  secular  congregation  was  gone. 

"They  are  their  father's  children,"  he  said  in  a  whisper.  "You 
are  all  I  have  left,  Amos."  He  looked  suddenly  at  Amos  with 
new  appraisement.  In  the  loud  confusion  of  Matthew's  and 
Amos's  speech  he  had  lost  Amos's  confession.  "You're  all  I  have; 
you  are  trustworthy.  I  am  not  left  desolate." 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

ELLEN'S  DREAMS  COME  TRUE 

When  Ellen  reached  Harrisburg,  Fickes  awaited  her.  To  him 
Fetzer  had  made  a  brief  statement  of  Ellen's  changed  prospects 
and  he  said,  as  he  guided  the  car  over  the  smooth  streets,  that 
he  wished  her  well  and  that  he  would  miss  her.  He  drew  up  at 
the  front  door,  as  was  suitable  to  her  altered  fortune.  She  had 
inspired  only  friendliness;  there  was  no  one  in  the  house  who, 
thus  far,  did  not  wish  her  well. 

She  saw  Stephen  reading  in  the  library  whither  he  had  often 
summoned  her  and  where  he  had  heard  of  Grandfather  and  the 
dim  Saal  and  the  lambs  at  play  and  the  singing  oaks.  He  had 
been  made  acquainted  with  Mrs.  Sassaman  and  Mrs.  Lebber 
and  had  drawn  from  Ellen's  reluctant  lips  the  unpleasant  story 
of  Mr.  Goldstein.  He  understood  now  Edward  Levis's  life  and 
its  disappointments  and  frustrations,  and  saw  clearly  all  that 
he  would  have  been  able  to  do  for  him.  He  understood  also 
Levis's  daughter  and  her  possibilities,  which  he  believed  to  be 
unlimited.  Now,  alas !  his  philanthropic  impulse  was  strengthened 
by  other  impulses,  even  more  potent,  though  as  yet  unacknowl- 
edged to  himself. 

Ellen  had  begun  to  view  her  past  history  with  detachment, 
and  she  had  described  for  him  the  vagaries  of  her  early  associates 
not  only  with  humor,  but  with  tenderness. 

"I  would  n't  give  up  any  of  it,  even  to  have  been  educated 
from  the  beginning.  It  used  to  seem  dreadfully  dull  to  sit  there 
in  the  old  Saal  and  watch  the  brethren  and  sisters,  but  I  can  see 
now  that  it  was  all  beautiful.  It  was  like  the  Rembrandt  pictures 
in  one  of  Father's  books,  all  different  shades  of  brown  with  some- 
times a  soft,  golden  light.  I  believe  it  was  a  good  place  for  a  child 
to  be  for  a  while." 

Now,  when  Ellen  entered,  Stephen  put  aside  his  book  and 
called  her. 

"Come  here,  Ellen." 

Ellen  sat  down.  Her  cheeks  glowed;  her  dark  blue  suit  fitted 


ELLEN  LEVIS  205 

closely  her  round  figure;  the  eyes  of  Beatrix  Esmond  were  no 
more  shining,  the  head  of  Anna  Karenina  no  more  beautiful  in 
shape.  Stephen  feasted  his  eyes,  picturing  her  in  dresses  such 
as  Hilda  had  worn,  her  smooth  young  flesh  emerging  flower-like 
from  a  gleaming  sheath  of  delicate  satin.  She  pushed  her  curls 
back  from  her  forehead. 

"How  were  the  relatives?" 

"All  well." 

"Are  you  ready  to  go?" 

"Yes." 

"Trunk  packed?" 

"Yes." 

"Have  you  said  good-bye  to  Miss  Knowlton  and  Miss  Mac- 
Vane?" 

"Yes.  Each  of  them  gave  me  a  present." 

"Are  you  sorry  to  go?" 

"I'm  coming  back,"  said  Ellen,  smiling.  "This  seems  like  a 
dream.  Fetzer  thinks  I've  made  a  mistake;  she  meant  to  train 
me  into  her  position."  Bright  tears  came  into  her  eyes.  "I  think 
of  my  Father." 

Stephen  rose  and  crossed  to  his  desk.  He  did  not  at  that  mo- 
ment wish  to  think  of  Ellen's  father.  Ellen  rose  also. 

"These  are  your  tickets  and  here  is  your  money.  Your  tuition 
is  in  the  form  of  a  check  to  the  University.  I  thought  it  would 
be  simplest  that  way." 

"It's  all  to  be  paid  back,"  Ellen  reminded  him. 

Stephen  smiled.  He  had  begun  to  expect  her  to  pay  it  back, 
but  not  exactly  as  she  understood.  She  took  the  checks  and  the 
tickets,  struggling  meanwhile  against  tears.  Then  she  lifted  her 
head  and  stood  like  a  young  Victory,  breasting  the  winds.  She 
pictured  no  specific  happiness,  but  only  a  general  brightness. 
Every  experience  in  the  world  which  was  worth  while  awaited 
her. 

When  her  eyes  met  his,  her  heart  began  to  beat  heavily.  She 
did  not  realize  that  life  with  its  strange  chances  had  dealt  with 
her  hardly;  that  she  should  have  been  bound  not  to  middle  age, 
but  to  free  youth.  She  wished  above  everything  in  the  world  that 
he  would  again  lay  his  hand  under  her  chin  and  that  she  might 
turn  her  cheek  against  it. 


206  ELLEN  LEVIS 

But  Stephen  did  not  move.  He  knew  that  he  might  touch 
Ellen,  knew  that  she  half  expected  to  be  kissed,  and  he  believed 
that  a  sense  of  honor  restrained  him.  In  reality  prevision  gov- 
erned him;  he  knew  that  the  present  must  sometimes  be  sacri- 
ficed to  the  future. 

"You'll  write  once  a  week,"  he  said  more  as  a  command  than 
as  a  request.  "You'd  better  put  your  letter  into  the  form  of  a 
report  of  what  you've  been  doing." 

"I  promise,"  said  Ellen. 

Fetzer  escorted  her  to  the  train  and  bade  her  farewell  with 
regret  for  the  loss  of  a  congenial  companion.  For  the  loss  of 
Ellen's  help  she  was  not  at  all  concerned,  though  she  had  no 
intention  of  engaging  any  one  to  take  her  place.  She  would  do 
all  Ellen's  work  herself.  Life  in  the  Lanfair  house  would  hence- 
forth be  very  simple.  Keener  than  her  one  consuming  passion 
was  now  a  consuming  dread.  Her  husband's  term  was  almost 
out  and  the  Lord  to  Whom  she  prayed  had  but  one  more  year 
to  convert  him  and  take  him  home;  otherwise  there  was  only 
one  course  for  her. 

Ellen  took  the  seat  indicated  by  the  porter,  with  an  air  which 
declared  that  travel  in  parlor  cars  was  not  a  new  experience.  She 
was  determined  not  to  seem  puzzled  or  frightened  or  even  over- 
pleased  by  the  fortunes  which  dazzled  her. 

Having  no  knowledge  upon  which  to  base  dreams  of  the  im- 
mediate future,  she  turned  after  some  vague  speculations  to  the 
past.  Her  early  life,  she  realized,  was  now  behind  her;  she  could 
not  but  feel,  though  she  reproached  herself,  a  deep  relief.  Her 
relatives  were  all  troubled  and  she  would  have  been  glad  to  help 
them,  but  she  knew  no  way.  To  live  at  Matthew's  —  how  impos- 
sible !  To  become  the  leader  of  a  band  of  religious  women  —  how 
unthinkable!  To  her,  religion  was  Grandfather's  religion.  To 
marry  Amos!  —  most  impossible  of  all!  She  would  never  marry; 
she  would  devote  herself  to  her  profession;  she  would  apply  her- 
self with  the  most  intense  diligence,  and  would  make  Dr.  Lanfair 
proud  of  her.  She  leaned  back  and  closed  her  eyes,  determined 
to  become  indispensable  to  him  in  a  far  greater  degree  than 
Miss  Knowlton  and  Miss  Mac  Vane  together.  Her  admiration 
for  his  keenness  of  mind,  his  learning,  his  goodness  of  heart  was 
unbounded. 


ELLEN  LEVIS  207 

When  she  was  shown  into  her  room  in  the  third  story  of  an  old 
dormitory,  her  pathway  seemed  to  be  Hterally  of  gold.  Flooded 
with  late  sunlight,  the  room  faced  west  and  north  and  looked 
out  over  the  beautiful  campus  and  the  lake.  She  set  down  her 
satchel  and  walked  to  the  window  and  stood  looking  out,  com- 
paring this  scene  with  the  scene  of  her  first  adventure,  Mrs. 
Lebber's  house  overhanging  the  deep  chasm  of  the  railroad 
yards,  its  grime  and  the  shower  of  sharp  particles  which  fell  upon 
her  cheek  at  night.  Here  were  roofs  and  towers  showing  above 
broad  tree- tops ;  yonder  was  a  stretch  of  heavenly  blue  water. 

Presently  she  turned  and  looked  at  herself  in  the  mirror.  Was 
it  all  a  dream?  The  thick  beating  of  her  heart  frightened  her. 
She  forgot  her  father's  urging,  her  own  unabated  effort.  Miss 
Mac  Vane's  assistance;  it  seemed  to  her  that  this  happiness  was 
Lanfair's  gift.  She  began  to  put  her  small  properties  in  their 
places,  to  examine  wardrobes  and  bureau  and  desk. 

As  the  weeks  passed,  she  made  friends  slowly.  She  was  not 
frightened  by  the  complex  life  of  the  University,  though  at  first 
it  confused,  nor  by  the  long  task  before  her;  but  she  was  shy  in 
the  company  of  youthful  feminine  creatures  of  all  varieties  of 
appearance,  natures  and  histories.  She  had  been  associated  with 
comparatively  few  persons  and  she  was  not  accustomed  to  shar- 
ing her  thoughts.  The  men  students  were  entirely  negligible;  she 
knew  that  she  was  the  object  of  their  friendly  curiosity,  but  she 
made  no  response  to  overtures  for  acquaintance. 

She  did  not  try  to  overcome  her  indifference,  but  devoted  her- 
self to  one  purpose  and  one  alone.  She  had,  as  her  father  had 
realized,  the  student's  mind.  Her  work  had  been  planned  for  her 
by  Stephen  and  Miss  Mac  Vane,  and  she  gave  herself  w^holly  to 
acquirement.  Her  schedule  did  not  point,  except  for  one  course 
in  elementary  biology,  to  medicine;  she  was  to  study  English 
literature  and  composition,  American  history,  French,  Latin, 
and  the  history  of  art,  and  she  became  promptly  what  students 
called  a  "grind." 

Nowhere  else  in  the  world  is  it  easier  to  live  the  life  of  a  hermit 
than  in  a  university.  To  each  student  is  offered  a  certain  amount 
of  social  attention,  but  he  is  under  no  obligation  to  accept,  and 
is  soon  left  to  himself  if  he  indicates  that  isolation  is  his  prefer- 
ence. Ellen  made  one  friend.  Miss  Grammer,  a  quiet  graduate 


208  ELLEN  LEVIS 

student  from  a  Western  State  who  helped  her  with  the  arrange- 
ment of  her  programme  and  with  whom,  when  the  first  adjust- 
ment was  over,  she  went  about  with  a  tourist's  eagerness.  They 
listened  enchanted  to  the  chimes;  they  climbed  the  tower  to 
watch  them  played;  they  gazed  at  mortuary  marbles  in  the 
chapel  and  explored  the  deep,  beautiful  gorges  which  on  two 
sides  bounded  the  campus.  As  a  graduate  student.  Miss  Gram- 
mer  had  access  to  a  Seminar  room  in  the  library,  and  thither  she 
took  Ellen  to  spend  the  long  evenings.  There  on  a  window-seat, 
with  the  twinkling  lights  of  the  town  below  her  and  the  lake 
hiding  in  the  darkness  beyond,  Ellen  learned  her  lessons,  study- 
ing sometimes  with  a  strong  effort  of  the  will  because  a  dreamy 
contemplation  of  her  good  fortune  tempted  her.  An  elderly  pro- 
fessor of  history,  adored  by  Miss  Grammer,  exhibited  to  them 
the  hidden  treasures  of  the  library.  He  was  a  man  of  eager  intel- 
lectual life  to  whom  most  young  persons  seemed  dull,  and  he 
smiled  at  Ellen's  profound  attentiveness  to  all  that  he  said  until 
he  observed  that  she  followed  up  each  uncomprehended  allusion. 
The  first  mention  of  Benvenuto  Cellini  was  answered  by  a  puz- 
zled flash  of  eye,  the  second  by  a  nod  of  understanding.  Ellen 
had  meanwhile  consulted  an  encyclopsedia. 

Miss  Grammer  had  a  small  fortune  and  it  was  her  dream  to 
settle  in  some  college  town  for  life,  buying  a  little  house  and 
taking  in  with  her  a  congenial  friend.  She  had  found,  she  be- 
lieved, her  congenial  friend.  Every  one  formed,  sooner  or  later, 
plans  for  Ellen. 

Neither  Professor  Anderson  nor  Miss  Grammer  realized  that 
what  they  did  was  each  week  minutely  recounted.  Ellen  had 
written  few  letters,  and  none  had  been  in  the  least  like  those  in 
which  she  now  found  delightful  occupation.  She  described  her 
room  and  the  campus  and  the  color  of  the  lake  and  the  foam  on 
the  waterfalls  and  the  red  oak  foliage  against  the  pine  trees.  She 
described  all  her  teachers  and  some  of  her  fellow  students  and 
the  chimes  and  the  mortuary  chapel,  with  its  stiff  marble  effigies, 
and  the  chapel  service  and  the  sound  of  music  across  the  open 
spaces  of  the  campus.  She  wrote  on  Sunday,  carried  her  letters 
with  her  to  vespers,  and  mailed  them  afterwards. 

Stephen  received  the  letters  on  Monday  evenings,  and  read 
them  with  delight.  His  own  youthful  response  to  music  and  art 


ELLEN  LEVIS  209 

and  poetry  came  back  to  him;  it  had  been  less  articulate,  but  it 
had  been  no  less  keen.  Ellen's  descriptions  reconstructed  for  him 
not  only  her  own  pleasure,  but  his,  and  he  kept  them  in  a  drawer 
of  his  desk  in  the  library  and  reread  them  often.  It  was  possible 
then  to  see  life  again,  freshly,  even  more  intensely,  through  the 
eyes  of  youth ! 

He  wrote  briefly  in  reply.  He  was  busy  and  so  were  Miss 
Knowlton  and  Miss  Mac  Vane  and  Fetzer.  Miss  Mac  Vane's  eyes 
were  better  and  all  the  women-folk  sent  their  love.  He  was  glad 
to  hear  that  her  theme  had  been  approved  and  that  her  history 
mark  was  A. 

In  December  his  letters  carried  a  more  definite  message.  He 
said  that  both  he  and  Fetzer  would  be  away  for  Christmas  and 
that  the  house  would  therefore  be  closed.  He  would  be  in  New 
York  and  Fetzer  would  pay  her  annual  visit  to  the  penitentiary, 
where  on  account  of  his  good  behavior  her  husband  would  be 
allowed  to  see  her.  How  would  Ellen  like  to  stay  at  school  for 
the  first  part  of  the  holidays  and  then  come  to  New  York  to 
meet  Fetzer,  the  excursion  to  be  his  Christmas  gift? 

The  letter  read  as  though  it  had  been  uttered  in  Stephen's  quiet 
voice,  but  there  had  been  nothing  quiet  about  the  hand  which 
penned  it  or  the  mind  which  planned  each  detail  of  the  visit. 
To  observe  youth's  reactions  to  New  York  —  how  rejuvenating 
that  would  be! 

Ellen  traveled  by  night,  according  to  directions.  The  journey 
might  have  been  made  by  day,  but  Stephen  had  told  her  to 
start  on  a  certain  train.  He  had  done  so  with  deliberation  —  he 
wished  her  to  learn  independence.  With  hot  cheeks  he  pictured 
Ellen  traveling  across  seas  and  continents  to  meet  him. 

Fetzer  had  taken,  the  evening  before,  the  luxurious  quarters 
engaged  for  her  and  in  the  morning  she  went  with  Stephen  to 
the  train.  She  always  did  exactly  as  he  bade  her,  but  this  was  the 
first  time  she  had  put  herself  in  danger  of  life  and  limb  at  his 
command,  and  she  made  of  her  alarm,  as  her  taxicab  threaded 
its  way  through  the  streets,  an  offering  of  affection. 

Stephen  brought  a  pale  Ellen  from  the  train  and  put  the  two 
women  into  a  car. 

*'See  that  she  gets  a  rest.  I'll  be  up  to  lunch  at  one." 

In  the  Belvoir  Fetzer  felt  at  ease  —  here  was  one  spot  which 


no  ELLEN  LEVIS 

she  had  made  hers  and  here  she  exhibited  an  air  of  proprietorship 
which  impressed  even  the  porters.  Her  own  kingdom  —  she 
would  Uke  them  to  reahze  —  was  no  less  grand  than  theirs ! 

Stephen,  coming  to  the  door  to  escort  his  guests  to  the  dining- 
room,  looked  not  the  least  like  pedant  in  charge  of  pupil,  which 
character  he  bore  in  the  mind  of  Fetzer.  Freedom  from  anxiety 
and  a  new  interest  in  life  changed  him  visibly,  straightened  his 
shoulders  and  quickened  a  little  his  deliberate  voice.  He  had  read 
*' Conrad  in  Quest  of  His  Youth,"  he  knew  exactly  what  had 
revived  him.  He  had  talked  all  the  morning  with  a  rising  young 
surgeon  about  an  operative  form  of  inflammation  of  the  cornea, 
and  had  observed  that  the  young  man  had  come  far  less  directly 
than  himself  to  his  conclusions. 

He  looked  with  delight  at  a  refreshed  Ellen  who  moved  with- 
out embarrassment  through  the  lobby  where  a  hundred  pairs  of 
eyes  watched  her,  and  who  walked,  still  unperturbed,  the  length 
of  the  dining-room.  When  his  order  was  given,  he  told  his  guests 
his  programme  for  the  afternoon. 

"We're  going  to  the  Metropolitan  Gallery.  Fetzer,  did  you 
bring  your  crocheting?" 

Fetzer  said,  "Now,  Doctor!" 

"  Good !  You  won't  want  to  listen  to  all  the  preaching  I  mean 
to  do  and  we'll  leave  you  in  a  snug  corner." 

"Well,"  assented  Fetzer,  "I  have  a  little  rheumatism  in  the 
knees.  I  guess  it  will  be  better  to  sit  still." 

Having  climbed  the  main  stairway  of  the  museum,  with  a 
supporting  hand  on  each  side,  Fetzer  was  escorted  to  a  comfort- 
able seat  in  a  warm  room.  She  still  looked  with  approval  upon 
this  man  of  important  affairs  who  interrupted  the  course  of  his 
busy  life  to  be  kind. 

"There  are  a  few  pictures  I  want  you  to  look  at  closely  to- 
day," said  Stephen.  "The  others  we'll  pass  by  for  the  present. 
I  want  to  give  you  a  general  view  of  the  whole  thing.  Nothing 
wrong  with  your  knees,  I  hope?" 

"She's  young,"  said  Fetzer.  "She'll  get  there  yet!" 

Stephen  looked  at  the  glowing  creature  beside  him. 

"Ever  been  sick  in  your  life?" 

"Never." 

He  continued  to  regard  her  —  youth !  —  ah,  nothing  else  was 


ELLEN  LEVIS  211 

worth  while.  A  hght  shiver  passed  over  him.  Then  he  laid  his 
hand  on  Ellen's  arm. 

*'In  this  room  is  a  collection  of  primitives.  They  are  enor- 
mously valuable  in  showing  the  development  of  art.  I  want  to 
show  you  a  Madonna  and  a  single  portrait  of  the  period.  See  the 
grace  and  the  lovely  tenderness  and  then  the  flatness  of  the 
whole  thing.  Here  is  a  real  portrait  —  see  the  shrewd  eyes  and 
the  kindly  expression.  But  in  the  main  they're  valuable  only 
because  they're  first." 

''Professor  Lamb  would  n't  agree  with  you,"  answered  Ellen, 
amazed.  "He  thinks  that  in  some  details  they've  never  been 
surpassed." 

Stephen  listened  with  attentive,  smiling  eyes  to  illustrative 
allusions  to  Giotto  and  Cimabue.  She  should  some  day  see 
Giotto  and  Cimabue!  There  was  in  Florence  a  dim  church 
whither  he  had  once  gone  alone;  thither  he  would  sometime  go 
with  a  companion.  He  pointed  out  a  few  landscapes,  a  portrait 
of  Walt  Whitman,  a  Salome  in  yellow,  a  little  woman  in  a  white 
head-covering  opening  a  casement  window,  three  boys  swimming 
in  a  green  sea.  Ellen's  cheeks  grew  a  deeper  red  —  she  had  now 
no  opinions.  Her  blood  was  quickened  by  Stephen's  touch.  Did 
she  feel  weariness.^  She  would  have  walked  till  to-morrow. 

At  the  end  of  an  hour  the  two  returned  to  Fetzer. 

"I  have  n't  heard  one  single  word  of  English  since  we  came, 
and  it  is  n't  Pennsylvania  Dutch  either.  Nothing  but  outlanders. 
Where  do  they  come  from.?" 

Stephen  explained  the  appreciative  foreign  population;  then 
again  he  took  Ellen  by  the  arm.  The  museum  had  been  his  refuge 
a  score  of  times  while  Hilda  selected  beautiful  clothes  or  lay 
abed.  He  had  made  it  a  point  of  pride  to  know  it  thoroughly. 

"I  want  you  to  get  the  impression  of  a  voyage  through  the 
world.  You  must  come  often  and  stay  all  the  time  of  your  visit 
in  just  one  section  —  here,  for  instance,  and  think  of  the  pyra- 
mids and  the  palms  and  the  yellow  sand  and  the  Sphinx  and  the 
Egyptian  girl  who  wore  that  jewel  in  her  brown  ear,  and  of  the 
jealous  lover  who  stabbed  her  to  the  heart  with  that  dagger,  and 
of  the  tents  of  the  Arabs  on  the  yellow  sand. 

"And  here  you  may  think  of  ladies  in  voluminous  skirts  and 
tight  waists  and  high-heeled  slippers,  who  made  love  to  gay 


212  ELLEN  LEVIS 

gentlemen  under  this  rococo  ceiling  and  prinked  before  these 
mirrors."  Stephen  stopped  before  a  mirror  and  looked  into  the 
dark  eyes  reflected  there.  In  imagination  he  kissed  Ellen's  red 
lips.  For  him  as  well  as  for  her  it  was  a  golden  hour. 

"Do  you  suppose  I'll  ever  see  it  again?"  asked  Ellen  sadly. 

"Certainly!" 

"With  you?" 

There  was  a  savage  defiance  in  Stephen's  "Why  not,  pray?" 

Ellen  sighed;  she  had  expected  her  father  to  show  her  the 
world,  and  she  had  been  disappointed.  Then  Stephen's  closer 
touch  restored  her  content. 

"Le  Prophete"  is  not  the  greatest  of  operas,  but  the  greatest 
tenor  and  one  of  the  greatest  sopranos  w^ere  to  sing  and  there 
were  new  and  gorgeous  stage-settings  —  it  would  serve  as  a  good 
primer  for  Ellen.  Stephen  was  amused  when  he  thought  of 
Fetzer  and  the  display  of  women's  bodies  in  the  boxes,  pitiful, 
thin  bodies,  and  unpleasant  fat  bodies,  and  watching,  he  read 
her  thoughts.  Fetzer  had,  however,  an  advantage,  she  needed  to 
look  with  but  one  eye,  and  that  she  fixed  upon  the  stage  where 
she  found  plenty  to  occupy  and  amaze  her. 

On  Sunday  he  took  his  guests  to  service  in  an  unfinished  cathe- 
dral, so  that  Ellen  might  comprehend  mediaeval  deliberation  and 
understand  how  Chartres  and  Amiens  were  built  —  he  expected 
to  show  her  Chartres  and  Amiens  —  and  in  the  afternoon  he  took 
her  alone  to  hear  a  Russian  pianist.  She  sat  quietly  and  for  a 
while  he  forgot  even  her.  When  he  turned  toward  her  at  the  end 
of  a  number,  she  was  looking  at  him. 

"This  is  best  of  all,"  said  she,  to  his  supreme  content. 

They  walked  down  Fifth  Avenue  in  the  late  sunshine.  It 
seemed  to  Ellen  that  every  one  was  happy,  but  none  so  happy 
as  she. 

"But  it  seems  wicked!"  she  declared  suddenly. 

"What  seems  wicked?" 

"To  be  so  happy  and  so  gay." 

Stephen  recognized  a  lingering  impression  of  early  teachings. 
None  of  that,  he  was  determined,  should  be  left  in  Ellen!  He 
needed  no  narrow  creed,  either  for  himself  or  for  her. 

"That  is  nonsense.  That  feeling  is  wicked!" 

Then  Ellen  asked  a  question  which  was  prompted  by  a  hunger 


ELLEN  LEVIS  213 

to  share  his  interests,  and  which  might  have  been  invented  by 
the  dehberate  and  cunning  art  of  a  much  older  woman. 

"You  said  you  were  going  to  talk  to  a  young  surgeon  yester- 
day morning.  Did  you?" 

Stephen  plunged  into  an  explanation.  To  be  conducted  back 
to  the  passion  of  his  life  was  all  that  was  needed  to  complete  his 
happiness.  He  spoke  rapidly,  his  hand  still  clasping  her  arm. 
He  was  old  enough  to  appreciate  the  value  of  a  companion 
moulded  by  one's  self.  His  thoughts  were  clear;  he  saw  even 
farther  into  the  subject  than  he  did  yesterday.  She  was  not  only 
companionable,  she  was  inspiring,  she  was  essential  to  his  well- 
being  —  he  would  never,  he  said  to  himself,  give  her  up.  Youth, 
ah,  he  could  win  it  back! 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

FETZER'S  EYE  IS  OPENED 

During  the  short  spring  vacation  Ellen  went  with  Miss  Grammer 
to  visit  Niagara  Falls.  Stephen  thought  with  satisfaction  of  Miss 
Grammer,  placing  her  in  the  same  class  with  Miss  Knowlton  and 
Miss  Mac  Vane,  whom  he  admired  and  pitied  and  with  whom  he 
liked  to  work. 

He  suggested  that  Ellen  should  spend  the  summer  with  Fetzer 
in  his  absence.  He  had  begun  to  believe,  by  a  strange  and  child- 
ish variety  of  logic,  that  if  he  did  not  attempt  to  see  her  he  would 
receive  a  reward,  the  nature  of  which  was  clearly  defined  in  his 
thoughts.  It  would  have  been  the  height  of  cruelty  to  wish  that 
Hilda  should  survive;  it  would  be  the  height  of  absurdity  to 
pretend  that  her  death  could  bring  anything  but  relief.  He  had 
pretended  even  to  himself  for  many  years,  and  for  a  still  longer 
term  to  others;  now  he  would  be  frank  with  himself  at  least.  If 
Hilda  died,  he  could  marry  Ellen  Levis;  rather,  when  Hilda  died, 
he  would  marry  Ellen.  He  did  not  believe  that  Hilda's  life  could 
be  prolonged  beyond  a  few  years. 

In  May  he  went  abroad  to  a  meeting  of  ophthalmists.  He  was 
to  be  one  of  many  speakers,  and  he  became,  with  the  first  para- 
graph of  his  address,  the  chief  speaker.  Conscious  of  his  triumph, 
he  believed  that  he  had  succeeded  because  he  was  intensely 
happy,  or,  rather,  because  he  anticipated  intense  happiness. 

Afterwards,  sitting  in  a  cafe,  he  watched  the  passers-by.  There 
was  but  one  real  happiness  in  the  world  and  that  was  to  be  his. 
To  have  Ellen  with  him,  vivifying  his  days  and  filling  his  nights 
with  peace  —  no  man  could  ask  for  more. 

When  he  reached  his  hotel  he  found  a  cablegram  awaiting  him. 
He  connected  it  foolishly  with  the  mood  from  whose  influence 
he  had  not  yet  passed;  he  believed  that  his  happiness  was  pre- 
monitory and  he  tore  open  the  envelope  with  a  shaking  hand.  It 
could  bring  but  one  message;  he  experienced  in  anticipation  as 
he  unfolded  the  sheet  the  inevitable  shock  which  the  announce- 
ment of  death  brings,  even  a  death  long  expected  and  desired. 


ELLEN  LEVIS  215 

But  Mayne's  cablegram  did  not  announce  Hilda's  death;  it 
urged  Stephen  to  wait  in  Paris  and  go  with  him  on  a  motor  trip. 

In  August  at  last  he  came  home.  The  house  went  through  its 
usual  transformation;  it  seemed  to  Ellen  now  not  that  a  machine 
had  begun  to  run,  but  that  a  heart  had  begun  to  beat.  She  had 
studied  and  had  sewed  and  had  visited  Ephrata.  The  half  of  her 
father's  property  had  been  delivered  to  her  and  Matthew  would 
henceforth  pay  her  an  income  from  the  farm.  Stephen  had  ex- 
plained her  presence  to  the  same  few  friends  whom  he  had  told 
directly  of  Hilda's  condition,  and  she  had  been  invited  to  ride 
with  them  and  had  a  few  times  been  asked  to  their  houses. 
Fetzer  grew  pale;  her  year  of  grace  was  approaching  its  end  and 
she  lifted  more  and  more  ardently  her  justifiable  prayer  for 
deliverance. 

Stephen's  arrival,  unlike  his  arrivals  with  Hilda,  was  heralded 
only  by  the  sound  of  his  key  in  the  latch.  The  time  was  late 
afternoon  of  an  intensely  warm  day.  Still  feeling  the  motion  of 
the  ship,  and  oppressed  by  the  heat,  he  walked  from  the  station 
through  the  almost  deserted  business  section,  across  the  burning 
square  to  the  cool  shade  of  Front  Street,  beyond  which  the  quiet 
river  studded  with  islands  appeared  to  be  a  lake.  His  pace  slack- 
ened. He  thought  of  the  dimness  of  his  shaded  house,  of  his  own 
bed,  of  his  offices  where  everything  lay  ready  to  his  hand,  of  one- 
eyed  Fetzer  and  homely  Miss  Knowlton  and  poor  Miss  Mac  Vane 
and  Fickes.  They  would  be  there,  too,  as  well  as  Ellen.  Ellen  did 
not  come  into  his  mind  as  did  the  comforts  of  his  house  and  those 
who  made  it  comfortable;  she  was  already  there. 

As  he  went  up  the  steps  he  experienced  a  moment  of  fright  lest 
his  home-coming  should  not  be  complete.  She  might  have  gone 
to  visit  her  kin;  she  might  merely  have  stepped  out  for  a  half- 
hour.  In  either  case  his  satisfaction  w^ould  be  imperfect. 

But  Ellen  was  at  home.  She  heard  the  turning  of  a  key  in  the 
latch  and  looked  up  from  her  book.  She  did  not  move,  but  fixed 
her  eyes  on  the  door  which  opened  from  the  library  into  the  hall. 
If  it  was  he,  he  would  in  a  moment  appear  there.  The  breath 
seemed  to  leave  her  body;  she  was  conscious  of  a  feeling  of  con- 
striction in  her  heart.  Then  she  bent  a  little  forward  and  saw  him 
looking  at  her.  He  seemed  to  speak,  but  she  did  not  hear. 

Stephen  did  not  come  forward,  but  leaned  his  shoulder  against 


216  ELLEN  LEVIS 

the  door  and  looked  down  at  her,  his  attitude  one  of  deliberate 
contemplation,  his  hand  thrust  lightly  into  his  pocket.  His  eyes 
were  keen;  he  saw  clearly  and  with  gloating  joy  what  had  be- 
fallen her.  He  would  have  patience  now ! 

The  sound  of  his  key  in  the  latch  had  not  been  heard  by  Ellen 
alone,  but  by  another  pair  of  ears  as  keen  as  hers.  Fetzer's  heart 
leaped.  She  rose  from  her  chair  in  the  second-story  hall,  letting 
the  curtain  which  she  was  mending  slide  to  the  floor  together 
with  thimble  and  scissors,  and  started  downstairs.  Even  in  her 
joyful  confusion  she  remembered  the  proprieties  and  sought  the 
service  stairs  and  so  came  into  the  library  from  a  rear  door.  She 
saw  Stephen  standing  in  the  doorway  and  wondered  whether  he 
was  ill;  she  hurried  forward  and  saw  Ellen.  Though  she  was  blind 
in  one  eye,  the  other  was  perfectly  sound,  and  her  perceptions 
were  all  the  keener  for  the  blindness  of  her  eye.  She  did  not  see 
Stephen's  face,  she  saw  only  Ellen,  and  Stephen  recognized  no 
more  clearly  than  she  what  had  befallen  Ellen. 

At  once  she  withdrew  backward  to  the  open  door  and  through 
it  to  the  passageway,  still  walking  backward,  until  a  wall  stopped 
her. 

"Oh,  the  poor,  poor  girl!"  she  whispered,  aghast,  lifting  her 
gaze  toward  the  ceiling.  "I  can't  understand  how  things  are  as 
they  are,"  she  said,  for  the  first  time  in  her  life  with  solemn 
reproach. 

Without  realizing  the  origin  of  the  gentle  sound  of  her  depart- 
ure, Ellen  and  Stephen  were  disturbed. 

"I'm  glad  to  see  you  home  again,"  said  Ellen. 

He  came  forward  and  took  her  hand  in  both  of  his.  Fetzer 
advancing  for  a  second  time  heard  him  ask,  "Where's  Fetzer .f^" 
and  moved  forward.  It  was  for  her  he  inquired!  Surely  he  had 
not  seen  in  poor  Ellen's  eyes  that  betraying  look  which  she  had 
seen! 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

GRANDFATHER  AND  AMOS  MAKE  DISCOVERIES 

Amos  had  acquired  during  the  past  winter  a  considerable  addi- 
tion to  his  library.  The  publishers  added  the  famous  tales  of 
''Pere  Goriot"  and  "Madame  Bovary"  to  their  lists,  and  in 
accordance  with  the  suggestions  of  the  clerk  in  the  department 
store  he  was  advised  of  their  publication.  He  read  no  more  at 
lightning  speed,  but  allowed  himself  only  a  small  portion  each 
day.  To  teach  school,  to  keep  house,  to  cultivate  a  garden,  to 
read  in  the  evenings  —  it  was  a  life  common  to  thousands  of 
prosaic  citizens,  but  to  him  it  was  a  life  of  wicked  and  surrepti- 
tious adventure.  In  April  he  received  a  copy  of  "Tess  of  the 
D'Urbervilles,"  and  with  it,  by  a  packer's  error,  a  recently  pub- 
lished and  enormously  popular  story  advocating  an  unremitting 
optimism  in  all  the  circumstances  of  life,  a  gladness  which  noth- 
ing could  disturb,  all-pervading  as  the  air.  He  read  it,  sitting  on 
a  bench  in  the  grove  above  Cocalico  Creek. 

"'I'm  so  happy  that  I  sing  for  joy,'  said  little  Mary.  *I  just 
make  up  my  mind  to  be  glad,  that 's  all  that 's  necessary.  I  make 
everybody  round  me  glad.' " 

He  looked  with  astonishment  at  the  printed  word.  Was  he 
to  pay  good  money  for  this?  A  succession  of  strange  expres- 
sions appeared  upon  his  handsome  face  and  finally  a  grin,  all- 
embracing,  malicious.  In  this  fashion  a  lion  might  mock  an 
unstockaded  village. 

Suddenly  he  rose  and  hurled  the  book  with  good  aim  exactly 
into  the  middle  of  the  creek  where  it  sank  heavily;  then  he 
laughed  a  silly  laugh.  Life  was  not  like  that;  life  was  orgiastic, 
sinister,  monstrous! 

In  June  he  went  to  look  after  his  supply  of  books.  The  Think- 
er's Library  was  not  growing  with  sufficient  rapidity  for  him,  and 
now  that  his  school  was  closed  and  he  had  so  many  long,  idle 
hours  he  needed  occupation.  The  day  was  rainy  and  cool  and 
dismally  unseasonable,  and  Grandfather  looked  at  him  in  aston- 
ishment. The  translation  of  "The  Mystic  Dove"  was  long,  long 


218  ELLEN  LEVIS 

overdue,  but  Grandfather  still  had  implicit  faith  in  its  comple- 
tion; Amos  was  slow,  but  spiritual  tasks  were  not  to  be  hurried. 

When  Amos  had  gone  the  old  man  felt  lonely.  He  made  his 
way  after  a  while  in  the  cool  rain  to  the  Saal  and  Saron,  and 
walked  through  the  buildings,  peopling  them  with  figures.  The 
stairs  leading  to  the  second  floor  of  Saron,  were  narrow  and  steep 
and  he  took  them  slowly,  trying  to  find  a  hold  for  his  cane  and 
not  daring  to  cling  to  the  ancient  rope  which  served  as  a  rail,  for 
fear  that  he  might  pull  down  the  whole  structure  upon  his  head. 

In  the  second  story  his  mood  brightened.  Here  the  sisters  had 
sat  with  their  spinning-wheels  and  looms;  here  they  had  sung 
their  ethereal  matins,  and  had  prayed  for  their  beloved  Father 
Friedsam;  here  they  had  talked  of  the  mystical  love  of  the  Lord 
for  his  Sweet  Flowers.  An  unsympathetic  person  would  have 
shivered  at  the  damp,  gravelike  air,  at  the  narrowness  of  the  tiny 
rooms,  and  at  the  ancient  odors  which  suggested  decay  and 
dreariness;  and  an  imaginative  person  would  have  remembered 
all  the  inevitable  physical  and  mental  abnormalities  of  conven- 
tual life. 

But  Grandfather  was  cheered  and  not  depressed.  In  a  sudden 
increase  of  mental  vigor  he  began  to  plan  once  more  the  rehabili- 
tation of  the  Kloster.  Here  should  be  placed  a  supporting  beam; 
here  fresh  plaster,  where  the  old  plaster  of  clay  and  grass  had 
crumbled  away,  leaving  exposed  the  slanting  rafters  held  to- 
gether by  wooden  pegs.  Here  was  a  large  space,  newly  opened 
like  the  hollow  in  which  Amos  had  found  "The  Mystic  Dove," 
and  he  began  to  explore  the  depths  with  his  stick.  He  had  gone 
over  the  old  buildings  many  times,  but  never  without  hope  of 
finding  some  writing  which  had  been  overlooked,  and  had  even 
stared  at  the  graves  of  Father  Friedsam  and  Brother  Jabez 
wondering  whether  they  might  not  contain  a  written  message 
for  the  present  backsliding  generation. 

When  his  cane  touched  a  small  movable  object,  he  forgot  that 
he  had  often  prayed  for  exactly  such  an  experience,  and  he  was 
amazed  and  excited.  He  knelt  down  and  thrust  his  hand  into  the 
opening.  A  book!  Many  books!  His  old  cheeks  quivered  and  his 
beard  trembled  upon  his  aged  breast.  He  pressed  his  body  against 
the  crumbling  plaster  so  as  to  reach  in  still  farther,  reproaching 
himself  because  he  was  surprised  at  a  blessing  for  which  he  had 


ELLEN  LEVIS  219 

SO  ardently  prayed.  A  library  of  books  —  other  "Mystic  Doves  " 
and  "Sweet  Lilies!" 

He  drew  them  out,  one  by  one.  But  the  binding  was  not  of 
musty  leather,  but  of  cheap  modern  cloth;  the  language  was 
neither  German  nor  Latin,  and  there  was  no  musty  odor  of 
sanctity  —  what  could  they  be.^  Still  kneeling  painfully,  he 
opened  the  uppermost  of  the  pile  which  he  had  made  and  began 
to  read. 

"Hitherto  he  had  never  compromised  himself  in  his  relations 
with  women.  As  he  had  often  said  of  himself,  he  had  inspired  no 
great  passion,  but  a  multitude  of  caprices.  But  now  he  had 
begun  to  feel  that  it  is  one  love  and  not  twenty  that  makes  life 
memorable;  he  wished  to  redeem  his  life  from  intrigues,  and  here 
was  the  very  chance  he  was  waiting  for.  But  habit  had  rendered 
him  cowardly,  and  this  affair  frightened  him  almost  as  much  as 
marriage  had  done.  To  go  away  with  her,  he  felt,  was  equivalent 
to  marrying  her.  His  life  would  never  be  the  same  again.  The  list 
would  be  lost  to  him  forever;  no  more  lists  for  him.  He  would  be 
known  as  the  man  who  lived  with  —  lived  with  whom.^  A  girl 
picked  up  in  the  suburbs  who  sang  rather  prettily." 

Grandfather  turned  fifty  pages  or  so. 

"He  was  the  young  poet  whom  all  Paris  fell  in  love  with.  He 
came  up  to  Paris  with  a  married  woman;  I  think  they  came  from 
Angouleme.  I  have  n't  read  Lost  Illusions  for  twenty  years.  She 
and  he  were  the  stars  in  the  society  of  some  provincial  town,  but 
when  they  arrived  in  Paris  each  thought  the  other  very  common 
and  countrified.  He  compares  her  with  Madame  d'Espard;  she 
compares  him  with  Rastignac ;  Balzac  completes  the  picture  with 
a  touch  of  pure  genius  —  they  forgot  that  six  months  would 
transform  them  both  into  exquisite  Parisians!" 

Grandfather  turned  another  hundred  pages. 

" 'Dearest,  we  cannot  spend  the  night  driving  about  London.' 

"He  sighed  on  his  mistress's  shoulder.  She  threw  his  black 
hair  from  his  forehead." 

The  book  dropped  to  the  floor. 

"Ach,  Gott  im  Himmel!"  cried  Grandfather.  "What  is  then 
this?" 

He  explored  deeply  and  still  more  deeply,  till  he  had  at  last 
all  the  library  before  him  on  the  floor.  Who  had  carried  these 


220  ELLEN  LEVIS 

books  to  this  spot?  To  whom  did  they  belong?  Together  with 
the  agony  of  which  his  cramped  body  suddenly  became  con- 
scious, there  rushed  upon  him  a  sickening  suspicion  of  the 
truth.  Only  one  person  beside  himself  had  access  to  the  old 
buildings. 

For  a  long  time  he  stood  staring  at  the  odious  books.  He  did 
not  wish  to  touch  them;  he  would  have  liked  to  press  them  into 
a  closer  heap  with  his  cane  and  to  set  fire  to  them.  But  they  were 
not  his.  Nor  did  he  wish  to  leave  them  in  this  clean  and  holy 
place.  He  would  carry  them  down,  and  when  Amos  returned  he 
would  confront  him  with  them.  The  dream  of  his  old  age  was 
not  yet  quite  destroyed;  there  would  be  no  restoration  of  the 
Kloster;  but  a  repentant  sinner  might  still  serve  a  secular  con- 
gregation. With  him  Grandfather  would  wrestle  day  and  night. 

He  carried  the  books  to  the  cottage  in  five  long  journeys. 
Baskets  woven  by  the  sisters  were  at  hand,  but  he  did  not  re- 
member them  and  a  heavily  laden  basket  would  have  made  a 
perilous  burden.  Up  and  down  the  two  flights  of  stairs  which 
were  scarcely  more  than  ladders  he  journeyed,  his  knees  shaking. 
Then  in  his  kitchen  he  placed  the  books  in  a  row  on  the  table. 

Confounded,  he  sat  with  his  hands  clasped  on  his  cane,  wait- 
ing. The  rain  continued  to  fall;  the  monotonous  drip  from  the 
eaves  changed  to  the  plunge  of  a  miniature  waterfall;  the 
shadows  of  the  Saal  and  Saron  and  finally  the  shadows  of  night 
fell  upon  the  little  house,  and  still  he  sat  alone. 

Amos  meanwhile  had  journeyed  through  a  landscape  shrouded 
in  rain  and  mist.  Fields  and  farmhouses  and  noble  groups  of 
trees  were  hidden  or  showed  only  in  ghostly  outlines.  In  the 
neighborhood  of  the  long  line  of  furnaces  and  mills  the  mist 
produced  many  strange  phenomena.  Above  the  ground  was  a 
succession  of  dull  masses,  black  freight  trains,  the  lower  floors 
of  vast  and  shapeless  buildings,  and  mammoth  truncated  pyra- 
mids of  dim  red  or  black  or  yellow  ore.  Once,  above  the  layer  of 
mist  which  enshrouded  the  upper  portion  of  a  towering  blast- 
house,  he  saw  a  titanic  figure,  a  man  elevated  apparently  upon 
the  mist  itself,  raising  against  heaven  a  defiant  hammer.  He  felt 
in  his  own  muscles  a  sudden  tightening  —  he  believed  that  be 
could  swing  a  hammer  like  that  and  swing  it  hard. 

The  city  was  wrapped  in  the  same  dismal  blanket.  He  wan- 


ELLEN  LEVIS  221 

dered  about  the  streets;  he  visited  the  Capitol  and  patrolled 
railes  of  the  muddy  river.  He  could  not  see  the  distant  bank, 
and  even  the  islands  in  midstream  had  vanished.  He  walked  out 
beyond  the  city  limits,  and  there  from  a  little  stone  pier  looked 
down  into  a  deep,  swirling  pool.  There  was  nothing  in  life,  he 
believed,  and  nothing  in  death  either.  The  men  and  women  who 
wrote  the  books  he  read  made  very  little  allowance  for  the  future; 
to  them  he  believed  the  very  conception  was  ludicrous. 

Then  Amos  realized  suddenly  to  what  point  he  had  come.  He 
recoiled  in  horror  from  the  deep  pool  and  from  his  own  wicked 
thoughts  and  rapidly  retraced  his  steps.  When  he  reached  the 
city  limits,  he  left  the  river  road  in  fear  and  took  to  the  first 
parallel  street. 

It  had  begun  to  rain  heavily  and  he  had  no  umbrella.  He  re- 
membered the  cathedral  into  which  he  had  gone  by  mistake, 
and  wondering  at  his  earlier  feeling  of  wickedness,  he  decided  to 
take  refuge  there  from  the  rain.  He  felt  an  intense  curiosity; 
Roman  Catholic  beliefs  were  often  mentioned  in  the  books 
which  he  read.  He  hurried  his  steps,  and  when  he  reached  the 
church  he  went  in  and  sat  down  panting. 

At  first  he  experienced  only  a  dull  peace.  His  body  was  tired, 
his  mind  ceased  to  operate  and  the  mere  freedom  from  thought 
was  comfortable.  Gradually  a  deeper  quiet  came  upon  him,  in- 
duced by  the  silence  and  the  dim  conception  of  ageless  traditions 
which  he  had  unconsciously  gathered.  Here  as  in  the  Kloster 
men  had  found  peace;  they  had  crept  away  and  had  taken  vows 
and  hidden  themselves  forever  from  the  temptations  of  the  mad 
world. 

He  saw  a  slender  youth  in  a  long,  loose  garment  enter  the 
church  from  behind  the  altar  and  kneel  down.  As  he  knelt  he 
read  from  a  little  book,  and  sometimes  he  made  a  graceful,  rapid 
motion  with  his  hand  across  forehead  and  breast.  Amos  watched 
hungrily  and  knelt  also,  crouching  almost  to  the  floor.  The 
young  man  had  a  happy  face  —  would  that  he  had  courage  to 
ask  the  nature  and  the  effect  of  his  orisons!  He  would  do  any- 
thing, follow  any  one. 

But  the  young  priest,  having  finished  his  devotions,  rose, 
crossed  himself,  and  went  the  way  he  had  come.  He  had  to 
Amos's  eyes  suddenly  a  complacent  air  which  produced  a  re- 


222  ELLEN  LEVIS 

action.  The  fierce  hunger  for  life  came  back;  he  rose  and  went 
out,  letting  the  door  slam.  He  would  buy  more  books.  And  — 
poor  Amos!  —  he  would  do  worse  than  that;  he  would  learn 
something  of  the  world  at  first  hand.  There  were  theaters  and 
moving-picture  houses  —  to  him  nothing  human  was  hereafter 
to  be  foreign. 

The  rain  had  ceased,  and  again  for  a  brief  space  the  mist 
descended,  not  now  in  a  thick  blanket,  but  in  ragged  masses, 
and  a  wind  blew  from  the  river.  The  deeper  chill  of  evening 
cooled  the  air,  and  as  pedestrians  took  on  a  livelier  pace,  he 
moved  more  briskly  with  them.  At  the  corner  of  the  square  he 
stood  still  and  watched  the  street-cars  moving  on  the  weblike 
tracks,  and  the  bright  lights  of  the  automobiles  weaving  a 
pattern  round  them,  and  the  larger  circles  of  human  beings 
perpetually  revolving.  The  group  of  Salvation  Army  workers 
stood  where  they  had  stood  months  before,  singing  shrilly,  with 
an  accompaniment  of  tambourine  music,  an  old  and  sentimental 
religious  song  set  to  a  popular  secular  air.  Their  leader  looked 
about  with  the  same  solemnity,  the  same  canine  determination 
to  snatch  as  many  souls  as  possible  from  eternal  death.  Amos 
looked  and  listened  unmoved. 

Then  suddenly,  as  though  by  this  dullness  he  had  opened 
finally  a  gateway  for  the  powers  of  darkness,  there  rose  beside 
him  a  representative  of  that  evil  which  he  believed  to  be  the 
chief  evil  of  the  world.  A  short,  heavy  woman  whose  black  eyes 
sparkled  behind  a  figured  veil  came  up  to  him,  so  close  that  her 
shoulder  touched  his  arm.  He  took  an  involuntary  step,  then  he 
looked  down. 

"You're  all  alone .^'*  asked  a  flat  voice. 

"Yes." 

"So  am  I,  but  I'm  always  glad  for  company.  Perhaps  you 
would  come  with  me.^" 

"Where?" 

The  woman  answered  by  turning  back  toward  the  dark  street 
and  Amos  followed  her.  He  walked  lightly  as  though  he  walked 
without  shoes,  as  an  Arab  might  follow  his  master  down  a 
ghostly  street.  His  folded  arms  might  have  held  together  a 
shrouding  burnous,  his  air  was  secret.  He  turned  like  a  soldier 
on  parade  into  a  dark  hallway  and  climbed  a  flight  of  stairs  and 


ELLEN  LEVIS  223 

another  and  yet  another,  going  as  though  he  understood  per- 
fectly the  object  of  his  journey. 

The  last  stairway  opened  into  a  room  from  which  he  could 
see  an  illuminated  sky,  and  he  realized  that  he  was  above  the 
square.  He  could  hear  faintly  against  the  sound  of  grinding 
brakes  and  automobile  horns  a  confident  declaration: 

"I'm  the  child  of  a  King, 
The  child  of  a  King, 
With  Jesus  my  Saviour, 
I'm  the  child  of  a  King." 

A  cold  sweat  broke  out  upon  him. 

His  companion  moved  quietly  about  the  back  of  the  deep, 
dim  room,  her  motions  imagined  and  not  seen.  As  she  moved, 
it  seemed  to  Amos  as  though  some  monstrous  and  evil  thing 
was  bearing  down  upon  him,  an  enormous,  indescribable  in- 
strument of  woe.  His  terror  was  not  only  mental,  but  physical; 
he  lifted  his  hands  as  if  to  ward  off  the  crushing  weight.  At  the 
same  time  he  felt  the  whole  situation  to  be  unreal;  and  so  keen 
was  this  impression  that  he  expressed  it  aloud. 

"I'm  not  like  this!" 

"What  did  you  say?"  asked  the  flat  voice. 

Amos  answered  in  deeds,  not  words.  He  rose  to  his  feet  and 
moving  like  a  cat  approached  the  door.  Then  he  flung  himself 
down  the  stairs,  one  flight,  two,  three,  and  out  into  the  street. 
He  believed  that  he  heard  footsteps  behind  him,  felt  dim  arms 
outstretched  for  him.  He  saw,  ten  times  magnified,  the  face  of 
the  captain  of  the  Army.  His  face  was  all  that  he  could  see.  He 
flung  himself  upon  the  little  band,  now  almost  without  an  au- 
dience, and  pushed  his  way  into  the  center. 

The  astonished  captain  laid  a  hand  upon  his  arm. 

"You're  not  fleeing  from  arrest,  are  you?" 

"No,"  panted  Amos.  "I'm  fleeing  from  evil." 

"Then  stand  right  where  you  are." 

The  tambourines  began  to  beat  furiously.  A  lassie  started  to 
sing  with  a  volume  of  sweet  sound  which  came  uncannily  from 
her  tiny  throat.  She  fixed  upon  Amos  concerned  and  pitying 
eyes.  The  woman  with  the  dark  veil  did  not  appear  from  her 
fastness. 

Amos  stood  close  to  the  captain,  who,  after  another  song  had 


224  ELLEN  LEVIS 

been  sung,  invited  all  who  wished  to  be  saved  to  come  with  him 
to  the  rooms  of  the  Army.  Apparently  Amos  was  the  only  one 
interested  in  this  important  matter  and  him  he  led  away,  leaving 
the  others  to  conduct  the  meeting.  In  a  bare  little  room  fur- 
nished with  benches,  a  portable  organ,  and  a  few  printed  Scrip- 
ture texts,  he  bade  Amos  sit  down. 

"Now,  Brother,  what's  your  trouble?" 

Amos  was  for  the  moment  speechless,  the  joys  of  confidence 
being  new  to  him,  but  when  he  began  to  speak,  he  could  not 
stop.  He  told  of  hie  youth  and  his  uncle  and  Ellen  and  of  his 
buying  books  and  of  the  old  Kloster. 

"It  was  intended  that  I  should  found  a  conventual  order." 

The  captain  did  not  understand. 

"A  what?" 

"A  conventual  order.  We  were  to  gather  in  others  to  live  a 
life  of  meditation." 

The  captain  knitted  his  heavy  brows.  "What  were  you  going 
to  meditate  about?" 

"The  goodness  of  God  and  the  sin  of  the  world,"  said  Amos 
faintly;  and  drew  forth  an  amazing  reply: 

"I  don't  wonder  you  got  nutty." 

"Got  what?"  repeated  Amos,  puzzled.  "Nutty?" 

"You've  understood  me.  Brother."  The  captain  tapped  his 
forehead  significantly  with  his  gnarled  hand  whose  deep-laid 
grime  no  washing  could  altogether  remove.  "Then  what?" 

Amos  described  his  despair,  his  contemplation  of  the  dark 
pool,  and  his  last  and  most  terrible  experience. 

"I'm  utterly  vile,"  said  he  at  last. 

"You're  worse  than  that,"  said  the  captain. 

"Won't  you  advise  me?"  asked  Amos  timidly. 

The  little  man  stared  at  him.  He  asked  again  for  a  second 
description  of  Amos's  long  days,  he  looked  at  the  mighty  frame, 
and  was  filled  with  an  impatience  which  was  almost  disgust.  He 
rose  as  though  he  were  going  to  turn  Amos  out.  Instead  he  ad- 
dressed him  fiercely. 

"Will  you  do  exactly  as  I  tell  you  for  a  month?" 

"Yes,"  promised  Amos  weakly. 

The  captain  opened  a  closet  door  and  pointed  to  several  sets 
of  workingman's  overalls. 


ELLEN  LEVIS  225 

"You  pick  out  the  longest  of  those  and  roll  them  into  a 
bundle  and  come  along." 

Amos  obeyed.  He  could  not  explain  this  strange  course,  un- 
less he  was  to  be  conducted  on  a  journey  to  see  depths  of  misery 
and  wickedness  more  abysmal  than  his  own. 

Whistling,  the  little  man  led  the  way  out  into  the  street,  and 
returning  to  the  square  bade  his  companions  good-bye.  Of  the 
wide,  interested  eyes  of  the  leader  of  the  singing  he  took  special 
note,  and  smiled  inwardly  and  said  to  himself  with  the  air  of  a 
prophet,  "Sally's  got  her  eye  on  him."  Then  he  climbed  into  a 
street-car,  Amos  close  behind  him.  When  they  had  traveled 
several  miles  he  got  out  and  led  the  way  through  an  opening  in 
a  high  fence  into  the  yard  of  a  blast  fm-nace.  The  blast  was  in 
progress  and  the  air  was  filled  with  rosy  light. 

*'Come  on,"  he  said. 

"What  are  we  going  to  do?"  Did  some  hideous  immolation 
threaten?  The  place  seemed  like  the  lower  regions. 

"We're  going  to  work,"  said  the  strange  guide.  "What  ails 
you  is  not  sin,  but  idleness;  you've  got  too  much  time  on  your 
hands.  I  bet  you  ain't  ever  worked  a  whole  day  in  your  life!  I'm 
the  boss  of  the  night  shift  and  you're  under  me.  Get  me?'* 

With  a  gasp  of  astonishment  Amos  "got"  him.  But  the  cap- 
tain, however  efiicacious  his  cure,  was  mistaken  in  his  diagnosis. 
He  believed  Amos  to  be  lazy  as  well  as  idle. 


CHAPTER  XXX 

FETZER  DELIVERS  A  SERMON 

Fetzer  did  not  sleep  well  the  night  before  Ellen  returned  to 
college,  nor  had  she  slept  well  for  several  preceding  nights.  More 
than  once  during  the  past  ten  days  she  had  been  astonished,  not 
by  Ellen,  but  by  her  admired  Dr.  Lanfair,  who  on  warm  eve- 
nings took  Ellen  riding  in  his  small  car. 

They  rode  along  the  pleasant  river  or  on  smooth  country 
roads.  On  the  outward  journey,  companioned  by  the  setting  sun, 
they  talked.  What  Ellen  had  not  told  about  her  past,  she  told 
now.  All  that  Stephen  could  remember  of  his  European  journeys, 
of  France,  of  Italy,  of  the  Alps,  he  recalled;  new  countries  which 
he  expected  to  see  —  with  Ellen  —  he  pictured  from  imagi- 
nation. 

Ellen  opened  her  heart;  his  remained  closed.  He  said  nothing 
about  his  youth,  his  father,  his  marriage,  his  inner  self,  knowing 
that  with  reticence  foregone,  other  inhibitions  would  be  difficult. 
He  still  believed  that  some  day  he  could  honorably  tell  Ellen 
everything. 

They  drove  home  silently,  their  eyes  upon  the  illuminated 
road  and  the  bordering  trees.  Once,  returning  from  Gettysburg, 
they  saw  a  deer,  blinded  by  the  light,  motionless,  terror-stricken. 
The  stopping  of  the  car  roused  him  from  his  paralysis  and  he 
sped  into  the  woods.  Their  thoughts  followed  him  to  some  deep 
refuge. 

Wholly  unsophisticated,  Fetzer  would  have  discerned  nothing 
unwise  in  these  excursions  if  she  had  not  espied  Ellen's  look  on 
the  day  of  Stephen's  return.  She  believed  that  Stephen  was  too 
modest  to  suspect  that  he  was  enshrined  in  this  susceptible 
young  breast. 

She  laid  the  last  articles  in  Ellen's  trunk,  and  when  she  went 
to  bed  she  continued  to  mourn.  The  world  was,  take  it  as  one 
might,  a  queer  place.  Then  she  turned  on  her  side  to  sleep.  Ellen 
was  young;  she  would  "get  over  it."  After  a  while  she  realized 
that  she  had  forgotten  to  say  her  prayers  and  she  crept  out  of 


ELLEN  LEVIS  227 

bed  and  knelt  for  a  long  time  praying  for  many  persons,  but 
especially  for  Ellen. 

Still  she  could  not  sleep.  She  reviewed  Ellen's  residence  in  the 
house.  This  last  summer  she  had  watched  eagerly  for  the  mail. 
Fetzer  had  believed  that  the  letters  which  she  looked  for  were 
from  some  college  acquaintance;  she  realized  now  that  they  were 
Stephen's  letters. 

"He's  not  old."  Fetzer  was  about  Stephen's  age.  "And  he's 
very  good-looking." 

Again  she  composed  herself  to  sleep. 

"He's  perhaps  a  little  too  kind  to  people,"  she  said  after  an- 
other half -hour,  in  her  nearest  approach  to  disapproval  of  her 
master. 

In  the  middle  of  the  night  she  began  to  think  of  her  own 
troubles.  The  Lord  had  not  answered  her  prayer;  Jim  was  not 
converted,  neither  was  he  translated.  His  term  ended  on  the 
first  of  February,  and  by  that  time  she  expected  to  await  him 
in  the  Pennsylvania  German  village  where  they  had  been  born 
and  married  and  where  everybody  knew  their  history  and  his 
shame.  She  was  not  afraid;  she  believed  that  if  he  could  be 
kept  from  drink  and  entertained  he  would  be  endurable,  at 
least  he  would  not  be  dangerous.  If  he  did  not  do  well  —  it  was 
all  the  same,  she  was  bound  to  him.  It  was  as  yet  impossible  for 
her  to  imagine  herself  in  the  little  house  with  him,  but  she  had 
no  other  thought  than  to  go.  She  would  still  have  Christmas, 
and  then  would  come  the  inevitable  misery.  To  her  Duty  was 
the  "stern  daughter  of  the  Voice  of  God,"  indeed. 

After  Ellen  had  gone  she  began  to  put  the  house  in  order  for 
her  own  departure,  spending  hours  over  each  room,  making  lists 
in  neat  little  books,  and  packing  carefully  Hilda's  belongings  so 
that  if  Stephen  decided  to  give  them  away  they  could  be  shipped 
without  repacking. 

"If  I  get  everything  done,  I'll  then  have  a  free  Christmas." 

Sometimes  she  walked  from  room  to  room  adoring  and  some- 
times for  an  hour  she  forgot  that  she  was  to  go  away.  Then,  as 
if  in  punishment  for  her  forgetfulness,  she  found  her  husband 
walking  with  her  or  sitting  close  beside  her  at  the  table  and  on 
the  doorstep  in  the  evenings,  his  arm,  his  arm  —  Fetzer  needed 
her  prayers  for  herself ! 


228  ELLEN  LEVIS 

Through  the  autumn  Stephen  was  constantly  occupied  and 
constantly  cheerful.  He  attended  his  patients  with  promises  of 
improvement  which  did  much  to  bring  about  improvement. 
Miss  Mac  Vane  stood  between  him  and  overwork,  and  Miss 
Knowlton  took  upon  herself  a  heavier  burden  than  before.  The 
period  was  one  of  supreme  happiness  for  both  women;  they 
lived  in  a  dream,  each  perfectly  aware  of  her  own  state  of  mind 
and  of  that  of  her  companion.  Miss  Knowlton,  at  least,  was  re- 
lieved by  Ellen's  absence;  Ellen  was  to  her  like  a  fifth  wheel. 
Stephen  often  sat  on  the  edge  of  Miss  Mac  Vane's  desk  when 
the  day's  work  was  done  and  discussed  cases  with  them.  "We've 
had  a  good  day,  have  n't  we? "  he  would  say,  and  Miss  Mac  Vane 
and  Miss  Knowlton  would  scarcely  be  able  to  speak  for  satisfac- 
tion. They  both  believed  that  it  was  unlimited  opportunity  to 
work  and  freedom  from  anxiety  about  Hilda's  behavior  which 
made  him  happy. 

Fetzer  had  formed  the  habit  of  returning  promptly  from 
church  each  Sunday  evening  and  after  carrying  Stephen  his  late 
supper,  of  sitting  with  him  for  half  an  hour.  She  always  told 
about  the  sermon,  to  which  she  paid  the  closest  attention  for 
this  purpose.  He  seldom  went  to  church,  but  with  this  failing 
she  was  lenient  so  long  as  she  could  carry  religion  to  him. 

When  she  finished  her  sermon  outline  she  invariably  inquired 
for  Hilda,  and  then  asked  for  directions  for  the  coming  week. 
She  was  happiest  when  he  set  her  tasks,  a  complete  change  in 
the  position  of  the  office  or  library  furniture  or  the  planning  of 
a  menu  for  a  dinner  party  of  medical  men.  This  fall  he  gave  her 
few  directions;  he  was  satisfied  with  everything. 

"And  now  I  must  go  away!"  mourned  Fetzer. 

One  Sunday  evening  early  in  December,  she  carried  him  his 
supper  and  sat  down  near  him  in  the  only  straight  chair,  a  more 
comfortable  seat  being  according  to  her  code  unsuitable.  When 
she  entered  she  saw  him  fold  a  letter  and  put  it  into  his  pocket, 
and  recognized  the  size  and  shape.  Poor  Ellen  —  Fetzer  hoped 
that  she  did  not  write  as  she  had  looked!  Though  she  understood 
Ellen's  earlier  history,  it  seemed  to  her,  all  else  aside,  that  Ellen 
had  lifted  her  eyes  to  an  unattainable  star. 

As  Stephen  praised  her  sandwiches  and  tea,  and  asked  her 
about  the  preacher  and  the  choir  and  the  attendance,  she  quite 


ELLEN  LEVIS  229 

forgot  all  her  worries,  forgot  poor  Ellen,  forgot  her  wicked  hus- 
band with  whom  she  would  soon  have  to  live,  forgot  everything 
but  her  adoration.  But  she  was  soon  recalled  from  her  dreams. 
Stephen  put  aside  his  cup  and  began  to  walk  up  and  down  the 
room. 

"Stay  and  gossip  a  while,  Fetzer.  We  must  plan  a  nice  Christ- 
mas for  Ellen." 

Fetzer  looked  up  startled. 

*'Is  she  coming  for  Christmas.^" 

"Surely!" 

"But  she  did  n't  last  year!" 

"No,  but  we  went  to  see  her.  This  year  she's  to  come  home." 

Fetzer  began  to  smooth  the  seams  of  her  black  silk  dress.  It 
was  a  present  from  Stephen  and  she  felt  like  a  queen  in  it.  She 
passed  over  the  astonishing  word  "home." 

"What  do  you  mean  by  a  nice  Christmas?" 

"Oh,  wreaths  and  holly  and  flowers  and  a  turkey  and  presents 
—  such  a  Christmas  as  young  people  like.  I  don't  suppose  she 's 
had  a  real  Christmas  for  a  long  time.  She  was  here  two  years 
ago,  was  n't  she?  What  did  you  give  her  then?" 

"A  white  apron." 

Stephen  laughed  and  Fetzer  began  to  tremble.  It  was  her 
feminine  duty  to  protect  Ellen. 

"Do  you  suppose  it  is  best  for  her  to  come?  On  account  of  her 
lessons?" 

"She  won't  have  any  lessons.  Of  course  she's  coming!  Was  n't 
she  here  all  summer?" 

Fetzer  said  in  her  heart,  "But  you  were  n't  here!"  Aloud  she 
said,  "Does  she  know  she  is  to  come?" 

"Know  it?  Why,  this  is  her  home,  Fetzer  —  surely  you  under- 
stand that!"  He  stopped  in  his  walk  and  looked  down.  Fetzer 
was  not  one  to  make  diflficulties.  "I  should  think  you'd  be  glad 
to  have  her.  She's  young,  and  youth  is  everything." 

With  a  great  effort  Fetzer  raised  her  eyes.  She  was  not  think- 
ing of  Stephen  or  of  herself,  but  with  deep  unselfish  concern  of 
Ellen.  It  was  hideous  to  want  what  one  could  not  have! 

"I  should  think  she'd  like  to  be  with  young  people,"  she  said 
with  a  little  gasp. 

Stephen  had  taken  up  his  long  stride;  he  stopped  again  and 


230  ELLEN  LEVIS 

looked  down.  Rarely,  and  very  rarely,  jealousy  of  Ellen's  young 
companions  troubled  him. 

"She  likes  to  be  here!"  he  said  sharply.  "She—"  Then  he 
stopped  short.  Fetzer  was  still  smoothing  the  seam  of  her  dress. 
He  was  glad  that  he  had  not  met  her  glance  —  he  did  not  wish 
to  betray  himself.  For  an  instant  and  only  an  instant  he  hated 
her,  then  he  blushed  for  himself  —  good,  devoted,  innocent,  un- 
suspicious Fetzer  could  have  no  doubts  of  him!  "I  may  not  be 
here  all  the  vacation,  but  that  makes  no  difference  in  her  coming." 

Fetzer  lifted  her  tray  and  bade  him  good-night,  and  when  she 
had  put  all  the  things  neatly  away,  went  up  the  stairs  to  her 
room  and  sat  down  at  the  window.  She  had  not  met  his  eye,  but 
for  the  first  time  she  had  heard  his  voice  speaking  to  her  sharply. 
It  had  the  effect  of  light  as  well  as  sound;  dark  corners  were  sud- 
denly illuminated.  There  were  his  frequent  letters,  there  were 
the  automobile  rides,  there  was  his  present  eagerness.  She  had 
not  seen  his  face  when  he  greeted  Ellen;  who  knew  what  his  look 
had  expressed? 

"He's  all  alone,"  she  said  in  an  awed  voice  after  a  long  time. 
"It*s  very,  very  hard  to  be  alone.  .  .  .  He's  had  all  along  from 
the  beginning  a  hard  time.  ...  It  was  a  wonder  that  he  stood 
it.  .  .  .  He  deserved  better  in  this  world.  .  .  .  But  this  cannot 
be ! "  She  spoke  with  childish  simplicity.  "  This  would  be  wrong ! " 

The  next  Sunday  evening  she  carried  Stephen  his  supper  and 
sat  down  and  gave  him  the  outline  of  the  sermon. 

"  It  was  on  the  subject  of  always  having  enough  light  to  live 
by  and  it  not  making  anything  out  if  we  have  nothing  else  but 
that,"  she  explained  in  her  native  idiom.  The  sermon,  if  one  could 
judge  by  her  pale  cheeks,  had  moved  her. 

She  inquired  about  Hilda. 

"I  so  often  think  of  her  sitting  down  there  when  there  is  all 
this  here." 

Then  she  took  her  future  happiness  in  her  hands.  Her  husband 
could  not  live  always  and  she  had  expected  some  day  to  come 
back;  now  she  imperiled  that  prospect. 

"I'm  sorry  that  I  cannot  be  here  over  Christmas,"  she  said 
soberly. 

"Not  be  here  at  Christmas!  Why  not?" 

"He  comes  out  the  last  of  January." 


ELLEN  LEVIS  231 

Stephen  looked  up  quickly.  The  absurdity  of  preparing  for  a 
month  when  a  week  would  suffice  did  not  at  first  occur  to  him. 
He  had  seen  Jim  Fetzer  at  the  trial  —  he  was  a  mad  brute. 

"You're  not  really  going  back  to  him!*' 

"Yes,  lam." 

"To  live  with  him?" 

"Who  else  has  he?" 

"Let  him  take  care  of  himself!" 

"But  he's  my  husband"  —  Fetzer  pronounced  it  "husbant." 

"He'll  shoot  you  again." 

"No,  I  think  not.  He  knows  now  what  the  jail  is  like." 

"It  seems  an  odious  proceeding." 

Fetzer  returned  his  gaze.  She  was  a  human  being  and  so  was 
he,  there  was  at  this  moment  no  distinction  of  rank  between 
them. 

"You  would  not  leave  her  stick,"  she  said. 

Stephen  swallowed  the  last  mouthful  of  tea.  There  was  some- 
thing behind  Fetzer's  strangeness;  it  was  ridiculous  for  her  to 
leave  before  she  must.  If  she  went  Ellen  could  not  come !  It  was 
not  possible  that  she  was  trying  to  spoil  his  plan!  He  rose  and 
stood  quite  close  to  her. 

"Why  do  you  go  before  Christmas,  Fetzer?" 

A  deep  red  flooded  Fetzer's  cheeks.  On  the  left  side  the  white 
scar  lay  like  a  hand. 

"I  must  get  my  place  ready  for  him.  It  is  everything  all  run 
down.  The  fence  must  be  fixed  and  I  'm  going  to  take  water  into 
the  kitchen.  I'm  used  to  the  conveniences  here.  I  — " 

Stephen  too  flushed  crimson.  He  laid  his  hand  on  Fetzer's 
shoulder. 

"Look  up  and  tell  me  what  you're  driving  at!" 

"I  mean  that  I  must  go." 

"You  mean  that  you  're  taking  pleasure  in  deliberately  spoiling 
my  little  plan  for  Ellen's  Christmas!" 

Fetzer  looked  at  him  appalled.  Oh,  that  Ellen  had  never  come 
to  make  life  hard! 

"You're  making  some  sort  of  foolish  pretense,"  he  continued. 
"Don't  you  want  Ellen  to  come  here?" 

After  a  long  time  Fetzer  said,  "No." 

"Why  not?" 


^32  ELLEN  LEVIS 

*'I  think  it  is  n't  for  the  best." 

"Why  not?" 

"It's  hard  on  her." 

"How  so .?^" 

Fetzer  looked  down  at  her  folded  hands. 

"It's  hard  to  want  all  the  time  what  you  cannot  have,  espe- 
cially when  you  see  it  before  you." 

"What  is  there  Ellen  wants  which  she  can't  have?" 

Fetzer  rose,  pushing  back  the  light  chair  upon  which  she  had 
been  sitting. 

"You  know,"  she  said  quietly.  "It  is  hard  even  for  me  to  live 
here  for  some  reasons,  though  I  'm  a  little  older  than  you  and  I  'm 
a  very  ignorant  Pennsylvania  Dutch  woman  and  I  have  this." 
She  laid  her  hand  across  her  cheek.  "Sometimes  I  think  how 
different  everything  might  have  been  if  I  had  been  born  different. 
Miss  Mac  Vane  —  I  expect  it  is  so  with  her  and  with  Miss 
Knowlton  too.  But  we  are  older  and  we  can  resign  ourselves. 
But  I'm  sorry  for  this  young  girl,  that  everything  should  be 
spoiled  for  her." 

"How  spoiled.^"  Stephen  asked  the  question  as  quietly  as 
Fetzer  had  spoken,  but  his  heart  was  not  quiet.  He  was  not,  like 
her,  unsophisticated,  and  he  saw,  not  for  the  first  time,  his 
attentions  to  Ellen  through  the  exaggerating  medium  of  his  own 
desire.  He  suspected  with  alarm  that  Fetzer  had  been  prompted 
by  some  worldly-wise,  discerning  person.  There  were  these  other 
women  in  the  house,  there  were  Hilda's  friends.  Could  some  fool 
have  meddled? 

But  Fetzer's  prompting  had  sprung  from  her  own  heart,  and 
it  did  not  take  into  account  any  reputations  before  the  world. 

"Because  nothing  can  come  of  it  for  her  but  trouble,"  she 
said,  and  went  out  of  the  room  with  dignity,  not  forgetting  to 
say  good-night  or  to  lift  her  tray. 


CHAPTER  XXXI 

ELLEN  REMEMBERS  BROTHER  REITH 

In  the  fading  light  of  a  December  afternoon  Miss  Grammar  and 
Ellen  went  together  to  an  organ  recital  in  the  chapel.  Only  the 
lamps  at  the  organ  were  lighted  and  they  found  their  way  to  a 
pew  in  the  twilight  and  sat  very  still,  seeing  dimly  the  mosaics 
picked  out  in  gold,  the  faint  outlines  of  arched  windows  and  the 
shadowy  forms  of  human  beings.  They  were  not  curious  about 
what  was  being  played;  for  them  music  was  merely  an  aid  to 
meditation.  Miss  Grammer  saw  a  little  brown  house  whose  snug 
interior  was  like  that  of  a  ship's  cabin.  It  had  built-in  cases  of 
drawers,  many  book-cases,  a  few  pieces  of  mahogany  furniture, 
and  at  the  windows  white  curtains  and  red  geraniums,  and  it 
was  surrounded  by  neat  flower-beds  in  which  there  was  a  con- 
tinual succession  of  old-fashioned  bloom. 

Ellen's  thoughts  dwelt  upon  a  human  and  not  a  material 
object.  She  saw  Stephen's  smile  and  heard  his  "Well,  Ellen!" 
It  was  only  at  such  moments  as  this  that  she  allowed  herself  to 
think  of  him.  A  history  paper  had  recently  been  marked  B,  in- 
stead of  A,  and  she  knew  the  reason  perfectly,  she  had  been 
meditating  during  a  lecture  upon  the  admirable  character  of  her 
benefactor.  There  are  long  periods  in  youth  when  the  present 
suffices  for  happiness,  when  the  distant  future  casts  no  shadow 
upon  the  drifting  hours.  She  was  content  to  work  as  few  students 
ever  worked  and  to  allow  herself  grateful  thoughts  during  organ 
recitals  and  late  in  the  evening  when  she  sat  on  the  window-seat 
in  the  Seminar  room  waiting  for  Miss  Grammer  to  complete  her 
longer  tasks. 

This  afternoon  the  organist  seemed  to  have  selected  his  com- 
positions for  the  special  benefit  of  dreamers.  He  used  soft  stops, 
and  one  lost  at  times  almost  all  consciousness  of  sound.  His  little 
yellow-haired  boy  had  climbed  to  the  organ  bench  and  the  light 
fell  upon  him  as  he  sat  motionless  watching  his  father's  hands. 
It  seemed  as  though  he  were  producing  the  music  by  a  childish 
magic. 

"Two  years  from  now  I  shall  probably  be  settled  for  life," 


234  ELLEN  LEVIS 

said  Miss  Grammer  to  herself.  "I  shall  not  buy  a  house  for  a 
year,  however,  until  I  am  sure  that  everything  suits  me.  I  shall 
have  a  fireplace  with  a  couch  before  it  and  my  bookshelves  shall 
be  all  about  me  like  a  wall.  If  only  nothing  happens!''  Miss 
Grammer  shivered.  Alas,  things  had  often  happened ! 

"Two  weeks  from  now  I  shall  be  at  home,"  said  Ellen.  "It 
will  be  almost  dinner-time  and  I  shall  be  going  down  to  the 
library.  Perhaps  I  shall  have  a  letter  this  evening." 

The  last  part  of  Ellen's  dream  came  true.  She  did  not  read  the 
letter  at  once;  it  pleased  her  in  her  confident  happiness  to  post- 
pone it  until  she  had  finished  her  evening's  work.  After  dinner  she 
and  her  companion  went  back  across  the  dark  campus  to  the  li- 
brary. They  listened  for  a  moment  to  the  noisy  brook  over  which 
they  crossed  on  a  little  bridge,  they  watched  velvety  black 
wind  clouds  blot  out  the  stars,  they  smiled  at  a  whistling  boy, 
they  heard  the  sound  of  a  dance  tune  from  a  fraternity  house. 

"People  are  gayer  than  we,  but  they  aren't  happier,"  said 
Miss  Grammer. 

"Oh,  I'm  gay,  too!"  said  Ellen. 

She  wrote  themes  in  English  and  Latin;  then  she  looked  over 
many  pages  of  history  notes  and  answered  mentally  a  list  of 
questions  which  she  had  set  down  at  the  conclusion  of  to-day's 
lecture.  She  could  answer  them  all  —  there  were  to  be  no  more 
B's!  Occasionally  the  name  of  a  studious  Junior  was  added  to 
the  list  of  Seniors  elected  to  membership  in  the  Phi  Beta  Kappa 
Fraternity  —  it  was  a  goal  at  which  she  aimed. 

Then  at  last  she  opened  her  letter. 

"My  dear  Ellen,"  wrote  Stephen,  "I  find  that  I  shall  have  to 
be  away  at  Christmas  -—  I  'm  going  South  with  Professor  Mayne. 
Fetzer  is,  I'm  sorry  to  say,  to  be  away  also,  not  as  heretofore 
merely  visiting  her  wretch  of  a  husband,  but  preparing  a  home 
to  which  he  will  come  permanently  next  month.  Then  Miss 
Mac  Vane  will  take  charge  of  the  house.  I  think  your  best  plan 
will  be  to  stay  in  Ithaca  with  your  friend.  Would  you  like  to  go 
to  Buffalo  again?  What  would  you  like  to  do.^" 

After  a  while  Miss  Grammer  looked  up.  Ellen's  head  was  bent 
low. 

"What's  the  matter?  Have  you  had  bad  news?" 

Ellen  lifted  a  pale,  astonished  face. 


ELLEN  LEVIS  235 

"No,"  she  said,  trying  to  make  her  voice  sound  natural. 
"Only  I'm  to  stay  here  for  Christmas.  Dr.  Lanfair  and  Mrs. 
Fetzer  will  both  be  away.'* 

"Well,"  said  Miss  Grammer  practically,  "I'm  sure  we  shall 
have  a  pleasant  time."  Blinking  in  her  queer  fashion,  she  deliv- 
ered a  little  homily  which  expressed  her  philosophy  of  life.  She 
had  had  deep  and  wide  experience  with  disappointment. 

"There's  only  one  person  for  each  of  us  to  be  absolutely  sure 
of,  that's  ourselves,  and  we've  got  to  make  our  happiness  de- 
pendent upon  things  which  we  can  get  for  ourselves.  Now  one 
can  always  have  books  and  nature,  and  we  should  make  the 
most  of  those  pleasures  and  learn  to  rely  upon  them  and  not 
upon  human  beings  or  worldly  fortune.  I've  had  to  do  that." 

Miss  Grammer  returned  to  her  books  and  concentrated  her 
attention  upon  them.  Her  remarks  indicated  no  vain  boasting; 
she  had  done  exactly  what  she  claimed  to  have  done.  But  she 
was  quite  forty. 

Ellen  sat  for  a  little  while  looking  out  of  the  window.  She  felt 
stupefied;  presently  she  was  conscious  that  she  had  difficulty  in 
breathing.  Was  she  going  to  cry?  She  must  get  quickly  from 
under  these  smothering  ranks  of  dull  books  and  this  heavy  pile 
of  stone  and  away  from  the  keen  eyes  of  her  companion.  It  had 
always  been  her  habit  in  trouble  to  run  out  of  doors.  She  rose  and 
put  on  her  hat  and  coat. 

"Just  a  few  minutes  and  I'll  be  ready,"  said  Miss  Grammer. 

"I  think  I'll  go  now,"  answered  Ellen  steadily.  "See  you  in 
the  morning." 

Miss  Grammer  looked  at  the  door  which  closed  gently.  She 
knew  the  main  facts  of  Ellen's  life,  and  suspecting  that  Harris- 
burg  held  some  young  man  to  whom  she  was  attached,  she  sighed. 

Outside  Ellen  stood  still.  The  night  was  bright  and  starlit. 
She  went  round  the  great  building  to  the  rear  and  there  sat  down 
upon  a  familiar  bench  which  was  a  part  of  the  architectural 
design  and  bore  an  inscription  which  she  knew  by  heart: 

"  To  those  who  shall  sit  here  rejoicing. 
To  those  who  shall  sit  here  sorrowing,  greeting! 
So  have  we  done  in  our  time." 

She  was  filled  with  wonder  and  amazement.  Could  such 
misery  be  real?  He  was  going  South  with  Professor  Mayne!  He 


236  ELLEN  LEVIS 

could  have  no  other  reason  than  his  own  pleasure.  If  he  had 
stayed  at  home,  Fetzer  would  have  stayed  also  —  she  knew 
Fetzer's  plans.  He  did  n't  care;  she  was  nothing  to  him  but  a 
poor  creature  who  needed  help. 

Hearing  the  sound  of  men's  voices,  she  realized  that  it  was 
foolish  to  sit  here  alone,  when  at  any  moment  a  company  of 
students  might  take  a  short  cut  across  the  hill.  She  longed  for  the 
shelter  of  her  room,  for  her  smooth  pillow  —  the  sky  and  the 
stars  and  the  cold  air  offered  no  balm.  Perhaps  in  her  room  she 
could  think  this  out,  could  find  some  ray  of  comfort,  could 
remember  some  detail  of  their  association  upon  which  she  could 
once  more  build  happiness.  She  rose  and  went  rapidly  down  the 
walk  and  across  the  brook. 

Once  in  her  room,  she  did  not  go  to  bed,  but  sat  down  by  the 
window  and  looked  out  at  the  dim  campus.  Her  pain,  dulled  for 
a  few  moments,  returned.  He  was  going  away,  she  should  not 
see  him !  She  put  her  hand  to  her  side,  to  soothe  actual,  physical 
distress. 

Presently,  as  if  to  ascertain  whether  this  agony  had  put  a 
visible  mark  upon  her,  she  turned  on  the  light  and  examined 
herself  in  her  mirror  curiously  and  with  humility.  She  was  not 
thinking  of  her  appearance;  she  was  asking  herself  a  question. 
Then  she  lifted  her  head  with  a  splendid  defiance  to  resist  the 
fire  of  amazement  and  resentment  which  ran  through  her.  The 
resentment  was  not  against  Stephen,  still  less  was  it  against  her- 
self; it  was  against  life. 

*'I  have  n't  done  any  wrong,"  said  Ellen  aloud.  "It  is  n't  my 
fault." 

At  once,  moving  deliberately,  she  undressed.  She  counted  the 
strokes  of  the  brush  on  her  thick  hair,  she  hung  up  her  clothes 
with  painstaking,  she  laid  out  fresh  clothes  for  the  next  morning. 
But  once  in  bed,  she  could  not  sleep;  a  faint  recollection  dis- 
turbed her,  a  vague  incident  connected  with  this  hour,  promising 
in  the  most  tantalizing  way  an  interpretation  if  she  could  but 
read  it  aright. 

Later  in  the  night  she  dreamed.  She  seemed  to  see  Millie,  a 
little,  weazened  creature  who  pointed  at  her  and  chattered,  rat- 
like, about  the  pursuit  of  Brother  Reith  and  the  unlawful  pleas- 
ures which  he  allowed  himself  in  the  absence  of  his  wife. 


CHAPTER  XXXII 

GRANDFATHER  PLANS  A  CRIME 

During  the  long  hours  in  which  Grandfather  waited  for  Amos, 
he  reviewed  his  hfe,  searching  Uke  Job  to  find  where  he  had 
erred  and  how  he  had  brought  upon  himself  the  heavy  punish- 
ments of  his  old  age.  He  had  tried  to  do  his  duty,  had  preached 
righteousness,  had  tried  to  interpret  the  Bible  correctly,  had 
given  to  the  poor.  He  had  married,  but  the  instinct  to  mate  had 
been  implanted  in  the  human  heart  by  God  Himself.  Except  in 
this  one  act,  his  whole  life  had  been  one  of  self-denial. 

In  spite  of  his  effort  to  be  righteous,  his  life  had  followed  a 
descending  scale  since  his  thirtieth  year.  Then  his  wife  had  died, 
and  about  the  same  time  three  families  had  left  the  church,  two 
to  become  Lutherans,  the  other  to  go  to  church  no  more.  They 
had  all  been  rich  in  this  world's  goods,  and  what  was  far  more 
important,  they  had  been  large  families. 

Afterwards  Mary  had  married  Edward  Levis  and  the  danger 
to  her  soul  had  occupied  his  anxious  heart.  He  had  recovered 
presently  his  sense  of  security  and  had  built  great  hopes  upon 
Matthew  and  Amos  and  Ellen;  but  here  again  he  had  been 
cruelly  disappointed  —  Ellen  had  left  him  and  Matthew  had 
behaved  shamefully.  Last  week  Millie  had  come  angrily  com- 
plaining that  Matthew  was  bewitched;  he  would  not  go  to 
church,  he  was  teaching  the  children  to  despise  her,  and  he  had 
taken  to  reading  books  which  he  had  once  considered  wicked. 

*'He  tells  little  Matthew  that  things  I  say  are  wrong.  My  way 
was  him  good  enough  when  we  were  married.  It  is  that  Ellen!" 

And  now  Amos  had  gone,  and  the  souls  of  all  three  were  in 
peril;  they  were  sheep  lost  upon  the  mountain. 

If  it  had  not  been  for  the  discovery  of  these  unclean  volumes, 
Grandfather  would  have  had  a  search  instituted  at  once  for  his 
nephew.  But  to  him  they  explained  everything.  He  felt  a  de- 
stroying rage  with  Amos;  he  could  look  upon  him  with  far  less 
leniency  than  upon  Matthew  and  Ellen.  It  was  in  his  case  as 
though  a  dog  which  for  years  pretended  gentleness  had  turned 


238  ELLEN  LEVIS 

and  rent  the  hand  that  fed  it.  He  had  practiced  a  long  piece  of 
deceit;  some  of  these  books  he  must  have  had  for  months. 
Grandfather  pondered  upon  his  comings  and  goings  and  decided 
correctly  upon  the  exact  day  on  which  he  had  made  his  first 
excursion  in  search  of  literature.  With  fresh  suspicion  he  took 
from  the  table  drawer  "The  Mystic  Dove"  and  Amos's  transla- 
tion and  discovered  that  work  had  ceased  months  ago.  He  looked 
with  tears  at  the  marginal  scribblings. 

"I  trusted  him  too  much,"  he  said  bitterly. 

He  sat  waiting  all  the  rainy  afternoon  and  evening. 

But  Amos  did  not  come.  Night  fell  after  a  gloomy  twilight  and 
Grandfather  went  exhausted  to  bed.  He  locked  the  door  with  a 
stern  pressing  together  of  his  thin  lips,  but  after  a  while  he  rose 
and  unlocked  it.  He  even  opened  it  and,  shivering,  looked  out 
into  the  black  landscape.  But  no  human  being  was  to  be  seen  and 
only  the  mocking  blast  of  an  automobile  horn  from  the  curve 
near  by  was  to  be  heard. 

Another  day  passed  and  Amos  did  not  come.  On  the  third 
day  Grandfather  saw  the  rural  carrier  drop  a  letter  into  his  box 
and  hurried  feebly  to  the  road.  He  opened  it  as  he  returned 
through  the  graveyard,  but  found  that  he  could  not  read.  He 
was  frightened  until  he  remembered  that  he  did  not  have  his 
spectacles. 

But  even  spectacles  did  not  make  reading  possible  at  once. 
He  stared  at  the  sheet  for  a  long  time  before  he  understood 
exactly  what  Amos  meant. 

"Dear  Uncle,  you  will  be  surprised  to  hear  that  I  am  going 
to  give  up  my  school.  I  have  written  to  the  directors.  There  are 
plenty  others  who  will  be  glad  to  have  the  place.  Uncle,  I  have 
found  peace.  For  a  long  time  I  have  been  uneasy  in  a  spiritual 
way.  But  I  have  found  a  friend  and  he  says  that  what  I  need  is 
to  work  hard  and  the  soul  will  take  care  of  itself.  I  work  in  the 
furnace  and  in  the  evening  I  am  with  him.  He  is  a  Salvation 
Army  worker.  There  are  three  men  and  two  women  who  work 
together.  One  man  and  one  woman  are  married,  the  rest  are 
single  people.  It  is  like  the  idea  of  the  Kloster  in  a  way.  I  hope 
you  were  not  anxious.  I  had  a  heavy  burden  on  me.  Uncle." 

When  he  at  last  understood,  Grandfather  was  violently 
excited,  not  by  anger  or  by  disappointment,  but  by  hope.  If 


ELLEN  LEVIS  239 

Amos  had  found  peace,  so  much  the  better.  But  he  need  not 
stay  away  —  this  was  the  place  for  him  to  labor;  let  him  bring 
his  friends  here!  Grandfather  penned  a  forgiving,  welcoming 
response. 

But  Amos  was  not  to  be  persuaded.  He  answered  saying  that 
he  was  glad  he  was  forgiven,  but  a  life  of  meditation  and  prayer 
suited  none  of  them ;  they  must  be  up  and  doing,  the  harvest  was 
white.  "It  is  our  custom  to  go  where  sin  is,"  explained  Amos. 
"We  do  not  wait  for  sinners  to  come  to  us." 

*"We'!"  repeated  Grandfather. 

The  word  had  for  Amos  a  specific  meaning. 

"There  is  a  young  woman  here,  Corporal  Sally,  who  is  a 
noble  woman.  She  has  had  a  sad  history,  but  has  come  through." 
Little  did  Grandfather  dream  the  struggling  against  sin,  repre- 
sented by  a  worldly  Ellen,  behind  these  simple  sentences ! 

Then,  alas  for  both  writer  and  reader,  Amos  explained  that 
he  could  no  longer  believe  in  the  keeping  of  the  Seventh  Day,  the 
ceremony  of  Foot-washing,  the  exchange  of  the  holy  kiss.  He 
did  not  hold  them  to  be  the  essentials  of  religion. 

He  said  in  conclusion  that  if  Grandfather  needed  him,  if  he 
should  be  sick,  for  instance,  he  could  come  at  once.  He  signed 
himself  Grandfather's  "in  the  Lord." 

"In  the  Lord!"  Grandfather  lifted  his  stout  old  stick  and 
brought  it  down  heavily.  It  struck  "Esther  Waters"  and  Esther 
fell  to  the  floor.  "The  Raft"  was  torn  across  one  of  its  grimmest 
pages,  "Madame  Bo  vary"  was  cruelly  slashed. 

Then  a  wilder  mood  came  upon  him.  The  end  of  the  Kloster 
was  decreed,  that  was  clear.  The  props  were  removed,  the  pillars 
loosened,  the  foundations  weakened.  When  he  was  gone  no  one 
would  be  left  to  cherish  the  old  buildings.  Curiosity-seekers,  long 
the  bane  of  his  existence,  would  carry  away  the  treasures  of 
books  and  curios,  the  wooden  blocks  upon  which  saintly  heads 
had  rested,  the  elaborate  charts  penned  by  devoted  fingers.  An 
insistent  antiquarian  often  visited  Grandfather  —  he  would 
come  and  take  that  which  he  coveted  and  perhaps  sell  his  loot, 
making  capital  of  the  things  of  the  saints !  There  was  no  rational 
explanation  of  earthly  affairs;  reward  was  not  given  to  merit, 
nor  peace  of  mind  to  those  who  deserved  it.  It  would  be  well  to 
make  an  end. 


240  ELLEN  LEVIS 

His  anger  quickened.  The  Kloster  was  his;  even  in  human  law 
he  might  claim  it,  might  sell  it,  do  as  he  liked  with  it,  as  the  last 
Seventh-Day  Baptist.  After  him  there  would  be  no  one  who  had 
any  real  claim  upon  it. 

Suddenly  he  had  a  vision.  He  saw  clean,  merciful,  leaping 
flames  doing  quickly  what  time  would  do  gradually.  The  sugges- 
tion seemed  to  come  miraculously  and  with  it  a  plan  for  its 
carrying-out.  There  was  an  angle  where  the  Saal  and  Saron 
joined,  where  a  pile  of  kindling  could  be  laid.  He  felt  an  over- 
whelming weariness  with  life  and  an  eager  desire  to  be  rid  of  it. 
He  began  to  plan  cunningly. 

In  the  night  he  took  from  his  woodbox  an  armful  of  fine  kin- 
dling and  carried  it  up  the  stone  steps  and  round  the  meeting- 
house to  the  spot  which  he  had  selected.  The  night  was  cloudy 
and  there  was  not  a  sound,  not  even  the  distant  baying  of  a  dog 
or  the  echo  of  footsteps.  He  returned  and  secured  tv/o  matches, 
the  small  can  from  which  he  filled  his  brass  lamp,  and  also  the 
ponderous  key.  He  would  look  for  the  last  time  upon  the  treas- 
ures which  he  loved.  He  opened  the  door  of  the  meeting-room  in 
the  Saal.  The  old  benches,  the  table  with  its  superimposed  read- 
ing-stand which  formed  the  pulpit,  the  faded  charts  on  the  wall 
—  he  saw  them  clearly,  though  their  outlines  were  almost  invisi- 
ble. He  repeated  to  himself  the  inscription  on  one  of  the  charts, 
then  he  stood  trembling  and  sighing. 

He  walked  through  the  meeting-room  to  the  kitchen  where  of 
old  meals  had  been  prepared  for  visiting  brethren  and  their 
families  who  came  to  spend  days  in  worship  —  he  groaned  as  he 
thought  of  their  multitude,  a  far  greater  multitude  in  his  dreams 
than  they  had  been  in  reality. 

The  interior  of  Saron  was  black,  but  he  needed  no  light.  He 
touched  lovingly  an  ancient  chair,  an  old  loom,  a  row  of  pewter 
spoons,  a  hand-woven  basket.  He  climbed  last  of  all  to  the  matin 
room.  Now  he  was  breathing  heavily.  The  thought  of  Amos  had 
returned,  filling  him  with  rage.  Matthew  and  Ellen  were  chil- 
dren, his  children,  but  Amos  was  not.  He  hoped  that  the  forth- 
coming tragedy  would  haunt  Amos  all  his  days.  He  meant  to 
come  back  to  this  room  and  await  his  end. 

He  went  trembhng  down  the  steep  steps  and  out  to  the  angle 
of  the  wall  where  he  had  laid  the  little  woodpile.  He  struck  a 


ELLEN  LEVIS  241 

match  and  its  light  showed  faintly.  He  had  selected  the  spot  cun- 
ningly; it  was  invisible  from  all  points  except  a  field,  and  in  this 
field,  sown  with  winter  wheat,  there  was  certain  to  be  no  observer. 
The  fire  would  not  be  discovered  until  the  flames  leaped  through 
the  roof  and  the  opposite  wall.  When  he  tried  to  light  the  wood 
it  did  not  burn,  and  he  remembered  his  coal-oil  and  lifted  the 
can. 

But  before  he  had  tilted  it  Grandfather  paused.  He  had  given 
the  hours  of  a  long  life,  not  to  dreams  of  arson  and  self-destruc- 
tion, but  to  meditations  upon  the  majesty  and  the  goodness  of 
God.  His  visit  to  the  matin  room  had  started  a  familiar  train  of 
thought.  He  ceased  suddenly  to  hear  the  crackling  of  flames  and 
the  thunder  of  falling  beams  and  rafters  and  thick  old  walls; 
he  heard  the  sweet  and  heavenly  singing  of  women  far  above  his 
head,  the  ethereal  sounds  issuing  from  fasting  bodies.  He  forgot 
his  rage,  he  forgot  Ellen  and  Matthew  and  Amos,  he  forgot  him- 
self. His  wrongs  ceased  to  be  real;  the  realities  were  white-robed 
choirs,  a  heavenly  peace  of  mind.  He  stood  listening. 

After  a  long  time  he  carried  the  oil  can  and  the  wood  back  to 
the  cottage  and  put  them  in  their  places.  Then  he  opened  the 
window  and  sat  down.  It  was  almost  midnight,  the  hour  when 
Father  Friedsam  had  been  accustomed  to  waken  his  spiritual 
children  so  that  they  might  worship  their  Creator.  With  folded 
hands  and  monkish  mien  Grandfather  rose  and  stepped  out  of 
his  cottage  and  up  the  stone  steps  to  the  meeting-house  and 
there  ascended  the  pulpit  platform.  The  room  which  he  saw  was 
not  this  dim,  low-ceiled  room  of  his  ministry;  it  was  a  loftier 
room  with  a  latticed  gallery  for  singers.  He  saw  before  him  an 
entering  procession,  and  alone  in  the  darkness  he  Hfted  his  voice 
and  praised  God  with  a  psalm. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII 

ELLEN  UNDERTAKES  TO  CONQUER  HERSELF 

The  first  sting  of  disappointment  past,  Ellen  believed  that  she 
was  glad  that  her  Christmas  journey  had  been  made  impossible. 
She  might  have  betrayed  herself,  and  the  only  light  in  her  dark- 
ness was  the  hope  of  keeping  Stephen's  good-will.  Her  experience 
of  human  passion  was  limited;  she  believed  that  the  simple  fact 
that  Hilda  lived  would  keep  his  heart  from  wandering.  Pure 
hearts,  she  believed,  did  not  wander,  nor  did  they  seek  those 
which  were  bound.  To  feel  his  eyes  upon  her  in  amazement,  dis- 
approval, or  scorn  —  there  was  the  one  contingency  intolerable 
and  shameful. 

Not  once,  during  her  self-examination,  did  she  surmise  that 
she  was  regarded  in  any  other  light  than  that  of  a  beneficiary. 
Stephen  was  grateful  to  her  father  for  some  remembered  kind- 
ness, he  sympathized  with  her  ambitions,  and  he  had  given  her 
what  must  seem  to  him  —  however  large  it  was  to  her  —  a  little 
from  his  store.  Fetzer's  opinion  that  she  had  lifted  her  eyes  to 
a  distant  and  unattainable  star  was  her  own  opinion  exactly; 
indeed,  to  Fetzer  he  was  not  nearly  so  exalted  a  person  as  he  was 
to  Ellen. 

She  felt,  alas !  now  that  she  understood  herself,  another  humili- 
ating emotion,  jealousy  of  all  who  had  anything  to  do  with  him, 
of  Miss  Knowlton  who  obeyed  his  commands,  of  Miss  Mac  Vane 
who  kept  his  house,  of  Fetzer  who  might  some  day  return  to  her 
post,  of  Professor  Mayne  who  went  about  with  him,  even  of  the 
patients  who  saw  him  daily.  One  could  become,  it  seemed, 
wholly  ludicrous. 

Another  woman  might  have  tried  to  conquer  this  passion 
because  it  could  result  only  in  misery  and  humiliation  for  her- 
self, but  Ellen  tried  to  conquer  it  because  it  was  wrong.  It  had 
not  been  wrong  to  love  him;  she  had  fallen  blindly  into  that 
error  —  upon  that  she  proudly  insisted;  but  it  would  be  sinful  to 
continue.  From  the  narrow  theology  of  Grandfather  and  from 
the  character  of  her  father  she  had  unconsciously  constructed  a 


ELLEN  LEVIS  243 

code  of  behavior  as  rigid  as  Grandfather's  precepts  and  as  her 
father's  probity.  Her  nature  was  developing  rapidly,  but  in  this 
respect  it  retained  all  its  natural  simplicity  and  innocence. 

She  determined,  therefore,  poor  Ellen,  that  she  would  banish 
Stephen  from  the  heart  which  he  unlawfully  occupied,  and  with 
this  end  in  view  she  laid  down  specific  rules  for  herself.  In  the 
first  place  she  would  think  of  him  no  more.  In  this  determination 
she  was  not  as  childlike  as  she  seemed  for  she  planned  for  herself 
deliberate  distractions.  She  would  study  still  harder;  she  would 
respond  to  some  of  the  friendly  overtures  which  were  continually 
made;  and,  above  all,  she  v/ould  dream  no  more.  She  laid  away 
the  tiny  watch  which  Stephen  had  sent  her  at  Christmas  —  it 
was  absurd  to  try  not  to  think  of  him  and  then  deliberately  to 
recall  him  whenever  she  needed  to  know  the  hour !  She  went  to  a 
few  dances,  she  received  a  few  student  callers,  she  even  went 
walking  four  times  with  a  graduate  student  who  confided  to  her 
the  history  of  his  past  and  his  hopes  for  the  future.  She  decided 
drearily  in  March  that  she  was  conquering  herself. 

She  would  go  to  Harrisburg  in  June  only  for  a  day  on  her  way 
to  Ephrata.  Her  self-examination  led  her  farther  than  her  rela- 
tions with  Stephen,  and  she  believed  that  in  her  preoccupation 
with  herself  she  had  been  undutiful  to  her  grandfather  and  to 
Matthew.  When  Miss  Grammer,  who  had  taken  a  cottage  on 
the  lake,  invited  her  wistfully  to  go  with  her,  she  burst  into 
tears. 

"I  wish  I  could.  But  I've  written  to  my  brother  that  I'm 
coming  home." 

Miss  Grammer  studied  her  gravely.  Had  the  object  of  love 
died  or  had  he  been  married.^  It  was  the  former  of  these  sorrows 
which  she  had  suffered  in  her  youth. 

"You  knew  that  you  might  come  with  me,  surely,  Ellen.'^" 

"Oh,  yes." 

"You  are  tired,"  said  Miss  Grammer. 

Spring  breaks  the  best  of  resolutions  of  Ellen's  particular 
variety.  The  willow  branches  turned  a  brighter  yellow,  the 
brook  bubbled  more  and  more  loudly,  crocuses  and  scilla  enliv- 
ened the  grass.  Presently  flowering  shrubs  bloomed;  one  walked 
in  welcome  shade  where  yesterday  there  had  been  sunshine; 
bees  hummed  in  and  out  of  classrooms  where  students  nodded. 


244  ELLEN  LEVIS 

Those  who  had  studied  ceased  to  be  industrious  and  those  who 
had  been  idle  continued  in  their  course.  There  was  Httle  talk  of 
Avogadro's  Law  or  of  the  Elizabethan  spirit  of  Shelley;  there 
was  discussion  of  baseball  games  and  boat-races.  Envy  was 
transferred  from  him  who  made  high  marks  to  him  who,  like  the 
wise  virgins,  had  provided  against  springtime  by  saving  per- 
mitted absences. 

On  Memorial  Day  there  was  a  boat-race  and  the  students 
departed  with  few  exceptions  to  the  lakeside.  A  half-dozen, 
studious  like  Miss  Grammer,  worked  in  the  library,  their 
thoughts  occupied  with  matters  alien  to  boat-races,  and  others 
whose  purses  were  empty  sought  points  of  vantage  on  distant 
hillsides.  Only  Ellen  turned  her  back  upon  both  work  and  play 
and  went  in  an  opposite  direction.  She  meant  this  afternoon, 
while  the  struggle  on  the  lake  was  in  progress,  to  take  herself 
to  task. 

She  selected  her  battleground  with  poor  judgment.  One  may 
win  a  victory  over  one's  self  as  one  walks  on  a  frozen  road  or 
under  the  bare  branches  of  wintry  trees,  but  when  one  approaches 
the  scene  of  conflict  through  beds  of  daisies  and  sweet  clover  one 
is  weakened  at  the  start.  Even  her  physical  strength  seemed  to 
be  failing  when  at  last  she  sat  down  on  a  fallen  tree  at  the  edge 
of  a  little  wood  and  clasped  her  hands  round  her  knees.  The  land 
fell  in  a  gentle  slope  to  the  campus  whose  towers  rose  above  the 
tree- tops.  Beyond,  and  far  below,  the  lake  lay  clear  and  blue. 
There  was  no  house  near  by  and  there  was  no  sound  of  the  life 
of  human  beings,  and  nothing  to  take  her  attention  away  from 
her  own  problem. 

She  believed  now  that  her  obsession  was  a  mortal  sickness  and 
that  from  it  she  could  never  escape;  she  hoped  only  to  hide  it 
and  to  proceed  so  that  it  might  be  unsuspected  by  others.  She 
had  tried  since  Christmas  to  put  Stephen  out  of  her  mind  and 
had  failed.  She  had  reminded  herself  that  her  affection  was  not 
and  that  it  never  would  be  returned.  Indeed,  it  seemed  to  her 
that  already  Stephen's  letters  had  grown  more  curt  and  business- 
like; perhaps  he  understood  and  was  trying  to  make  clear  to  her 
the  hopelessness  of  her  situation. 

She  reproached  herself  for  her  blindness.  It  was  upon  the 
night  when  she  had  returned  from  the  King  Sanatorium  that  this 


ELLEN  LEVIS  245 

had  begun;  she  should  have  understood  herself  then,  and  not 
created  for  herself  a  fool's  paradise.  The  effect  of  this  emotion 
was  like  the  effect  of  death,  it  colored  everything.  The  universe 
had  narrowed  to  a  point.  She  did  not  realize  how  unlike  most 
lives  her  life  was,  with  its  limited  circle  of  acquaintances,  and  its 
intense  affection  for  a  few  human  beings. 

The  afternoon  wore  slowly  on;  far  away  the  straining  bodies 
of  the  rowers  bent  above  their  oars  waiting  the  word  to  make  a 
belated  start,  the  thousands  of  spectators  shouted,  and  presently 
the  long  observation  train  began  to  move  with  the  boats.  She 
should  have  been  with  her  schoolmates  in  body  and  in  spirit, 
but  she  did  not  even  think  of  them. 

Suddenly  it  seemed  to  her  that  some  restraining  band  within 
her  weakened  and  broke.  In  imagination  she  let  her  eyes  devour 
Stephen,  let  herself  be  enfolded  by  his  arms,  lifted  her  lips  to  his. 
She  uttered  a  sigh  of  complete  abandonment;  she  began  eagerly 
to  comfort  herself  with  reminders  of  his  gifts  to  her,  his  smile 
upon  her,  his  hand  on  a  memorable  occasion  lifting  her  chin. 
When  he  had  walked  with  her  in  New  York,  he  had  never  let  go 
her  arm;  when  he  helped  her  into  his  car  his  clasp  lingered.  She 
found  herself  speaking  aloud. 

*'  If  I  could  only  see  him !  I  have  n't  seen  him  since  last  summer! 
If  I  only  knew  that  he  did  n't  despise  me,  that  he  thought  of  me, 
I  should  n't  care  for  anything  else.  Then  I  could  work  once  more. 
If  I  could  only  see  him!  Others  can,  and  I  would  give  my  life 
for  him!" 

She  heard  dimly  the  cheering  of  a  multitude.  It  must  be  that 
the  race  was  won;  the  visitors  could  produce  no  such  volume  of 
sound.  But  her  victory  was  not  won!  She  rose  and  went  down 
the  hill  to  the  road,  her  shoulders  bent.  Her  childhood  had  been 
ended  by  her  father's  death,  and  now  her  youth  was  ended  by 
this  misfortune.  She  remembered,  alas,  a  word  of  Amos's  — 
*'burn  with  sinful  passion"  —  and  she  was  filled  with  shame. 

She  crossed  the  deserted  campus  to  the  library,  walking  aim- 
lessly, and  descended  to  the  cool  corridor  leading  to  the  Seminar 
room.  The  door  was  open  and  she  could  see  Miss  Grammer  at 
work  within.  Unheard,  she  stood  looking  at  her  curiously,  almost 
as  though  Miss  Grammer  were  dead.  So  that  was  what  was  left 
for  one,  that  was  what  one  became ! 


CHAPTER  XXXIV 

A  DARK  TOWER 

When  Stephen  returned  from  his  excursion  with  Professor 
Mayne,  Miss  Mac  Vane  had  installed  a  young  woman  in  his 
office  and  had  herself  taken  charge  of  his  house,  filling  her  new 
position  with  Fetzer's  devotion. 

He  had  given  no  directions  for  Ellen's  letters  to  follow  him 
and  when  he  read  them  on  his  return  he  discovered  with  selfish 
pleasure  that  she  had  missed  a  week.  So  she  could  n't  write,  poor 
child !  A  pretty  dreary  time  she  must  have  had  with  Miss  Gram- 
mer!  So  had  he  with  Mayne.  He  longed  to  tease  Ellen  until  her 
eyes  filled  with  tears  and  then  to  brighten  them  again.  He  had 
changed  his  Christmas  plans  neither  out  of  respect  to  Fetzer's 
opinion,  nor  because  he  wished  to  avoid  encouraging  Ellen's 
affection,  but  because  of  the  sharp  eyes  of  the  other  women  in 
his  house,  and  because  he  believed  his  deliverance  was  at  hand. 
Hilda  was  worse,  and  her  malady  was  likely  to  take  henceforth 
a  more  rapid  course. 

Ellen's  mid-year  examinations  were  successfully  passed  and 
he  proudly  showed  her  report  card  to  Miss  Mac  Vane,  who 
looked  at  him  keenly  and  enigmatically  from  behind  her  thick 
glasses,  but  kept  her  thoughts  to  herself.  Ellen  and  Miss  Gram- 
mer  had  been  invited  by  Professor  Anderson  to  the  box  of  his 
fraternity  at  the  Junior  Promenade,  and  Ellen  had  danced.  Did 
Ellen  dance?  His  heart  sank.  Professor  Anderson  was  an  old  man 
—  she  must  have  had  a  more  agile  partner.  She  went  to  the 
theater  —  she  did  not  say  with  whom.  She  won  election  to 
Phi  Beta  Kappa,  and  his  eyes  sparkled. 

In  the  spring  impatience  tortured  him.  He  was  tired  and  his 
nights  were  restless.  Life  was  passing;  he  was  now  forty-three 
years  old  and  joys,  unless  they  were  snatched  quickly,  would 
cease  to  be  joys. 

Late  in  May  Dr.  King  asked  for  a  personal  interview  —  the 
message  could  mean  only  a  change  for  the  worse.  To  be  free,  to 
have  a  few  years  of  life  at  high  pitch  —  how  eager  was  his  long- 


ELLEN  LEVIS  247 

ing,  how  clear  his  visuaHzation  of  the  nature  of  that  happiness ! 
A  year  from  now  Ellen  would  have  finished  her  course  —  it 
would  be  absurd  to  wait  beyond  that  time. 

But  freedom  was  not  at  hand.  Hilda,  he  learned,  had  seemed 
to  improve  and  had  asked  for  her  husband.  Dr.  King  was  almost 
jubilant;  the  improvement  offered  hope  for  all  similar  cases.  She 
was  so  much  better  that  he  believed  it  might  be  possible  for  her 
to  have  a  period  of  liberty  in  her  home  under  the  care  of  attend- 
ants. He  felt  an  intense  sympathy  for  Lanfair,  and  an  intense 
satisfaction  in  the  news  he  had  to  impart.  Mrs.  Lanfair  had  not 
been  long  enough  away  for  her  return  to  seem  like  a  return  from 
the  dead  as  sometimes  tragically  happened.  But  Lanfair  must 
not  let  himself  be  too  hopeful. 

Stephen  looked  silently  down  upon  the  eager  little  man.  Hope- 
ful! He  began  to  tremble.  Was  he  to  take  her  home  now?  It 
could  n't  be;  he  would  have  to  explain,  to  make  excuses.  He  stam- 
mered an  incoherent  answer  and  followed  along  thickly  carpeted 
corridors,  his  cheeks  quivering.  He  fixed  his  eyes  upon  the  back 
of  Dr.  King's  well-clad  figure  and  was  absurdly  and  grossly 
offended  by  the  pattern  of  his  coat.  He  said  that  he  must  get 
hold  of  himself,  that  this  would  never  do. 

Only  the  fact  that  his  guide  locked  and  unlocked  all  doors 
through  which  they  passed  differentiated  the  journey  from  a 
journey  through  any  large  and  well-appointed  house.  It  appeared 
to  be  endless,  but  when  they  paused  before  Hilda's  door,  it 
seemed  to  have  lasted  no  more  than  a  second.  Stephen  laid  his 
hand  on  Dr.  King's  arm.  With  difficulty  he  commanded  his 
voice,  and  the  words  when  they  were  formed  seemed  to  come 
from  some  other  throat.  If  the  interview  could  be  only  a  little 
delayed !  It  was  not  possible  that  he  would  faint !  He  had  felt  a 
similar  terror  years  ago  when  he  had  traveled  toward  Phila- 
delphia expecting  to  hear  that  he  was  forever  disgraced. 

"Has  she  been  prepared  for  my  visit?" 

"Oh,  yes!  She's  waiting  for  you!" 

The  superintendent  pushed  the  door  open  and  tapped  on  an 
inner  door  and  a  nurse  greeted  them  in  a  friendly  voice. 

"We've  been  watching  for  you,  have  n't  we,  Mrs.  Lanfair?" 
she  said,  turning  to  some  one  within. 

Stephen  felt  an  insane  desire  to  imitate  with  childish  and  im- 


248  ELLEN  LEVIS 

pertinent  syllables  the  rise  and  fall  of  her  voice.  He  found  him- 
self in  a  luxurious  sitting-room.  For  a  moment  he  could  see 
nothing;  then  he  discovered  Hilda  in  a  rocking-chair  close  to  the 
barred  and  awninged  window  which  opened  upon  a  portion  of 
the  lav/n  laid  out  in  imitation  of  a  Japanese  garden.  He  could 
hear  the  delicate  sound  of  running  water,  and  see  birds  dipping 
into  a  pool. 

While  he  tried  to  speak,  he  observed  that  Hilda  had  grown 
stout;  though  she  did  not  look  like  herself,  face  and  figure  were 
nevertheless  familiar.  Ah !  it  was  her  uncle  whom  she  had  grown 
to  resemble,  and  there  was  something  grossly  unpleasant  in  the 
change. 

"You  see,  I've  brought  him!"  announced  the  superintendent, 
as  though  this  had  been  accomplished  only  by  a  very  great  effort. 

Poor  Hilda  saw  plainly  —  for  this  moment  she  had  been  cun- 
ningly planning.  She  did  not  rise  or  move  forward  or  make  any 
motion,  except  a  motion  with  her  lips.  All  that  she  wanted  to 
say  to  her  uncle  and  Dr.  Good  on  the  night  when  she  came  away, 
she  said  now,  eloquently.  Her  heavy,  motionless  body  seemed  to 
add  treble  emphasis.  Such  accusations  uttered  with  an  accom- 
paniment of  hysterical  laughter  or  of  waving  arms  would  have 
seemed  mad;  but  she  did  not  speak  like  a  madwoman.  One 
would  have  said  that  her  reasoning  was  sound  though  her  pre- 
mises were  false. 

She  had  uttered  a  dozen  sentences  before  her  audience  came 
to  themselves.  Then  Stephen  moved  backward.  He  was  not 
afraid;  he  simply  wished  to  get  away,  to  end  the  intolerable 
tirade  as  soon  as  possible.  The  nurse  stepped  between  him  and 
Hilda,  and  the  doctor  closed  and  locked  the  door  quickly,  him- 
self and  Stephen  outside.  Dr.  King  was  distressed. 

*'One  can  never  tell,"  he  said,  frowning.  "I  can't  say  that  I'm 
altogether  surprised,  but  I  felt  that  the  experiment  should  be 
made.  You  understand  my  motive?" 

"Certainly,"  Stephen  assured  him. 

In  the  oflBce  Stephen  repeated  his  directions  for  Hilda's  com- 
fort. He  would  not  sit  down;  he  wished  to  escape  quickly  as  he 
had  wished  to  escape  from  the  hospital  when  there  had  been 
lengthy  operations  with  long  incisions  or  with  copious  letting  of 
blood.  He  had  always  avoided  contact  with  unpleasant  realities. 


ELLEN  LEVIS  249 

When  a  nurse  came  to  speak  to  the  superintendent,  he  went  out 
and  got  into  the  car,  which  he  had  driven  himself.  He  had  ex- 
pected to  go  on  to  Philadelphia  for  the  night,  but  his  business 
there  seemed  suddenly  unimportant.  Neither  did  he  wish  to 
return  home. 

At  the  first  crossroad  he  got  out  to  investigate  a  suspicious 
sound  in  the  running-gear  of  his  car,  and  seeking  the  tool  with 
which  to  tighten  a  screw  scratched  his  left  hand  deeply,  and 
irritably  wiped  away  the  blood.  Then  he  stood  still  looking  about. 
Harrisburg  lay  toward  the  west  —  a  road  led  there  directly; 
Philadelphia  toward  the  east  —  Mayne  was  expecting  him.  He 
could  not  see  Mayne  of  all  persons  in  the  world ! 

Then  suddenly  his  eyes  narrowed,  the  beat  of  his  heart  quick- 
ened, he  smiled  slowly.  He  had  once  visited  Ithaca  in  the  spring, 
it  was  lovely  with  its  thick  shade,  its  waterfalls,  its  lake;  he 
determined  that  he  would  see  it  again.  Then  he  laughed.  He 
would  go  if  it  was  as  homely  as  Chestnut  Ridge,  if  the  month 
was  January !  No  one  need  know,  no  one  would  ever  be  the  worse 
for  it.  He  could  be  there  by  to-morrow  evening  and  any  one  so 
industrious  as  Ellen  could  cut  Saturday  classes.  Saturday  and 
Sunday  would  be  days  to  set  against  months  of  unhappiness. 
He  said  again  that  no  one  would  be  the  worse  for  it. 

Suddenly  he  laughed  at  himself  for  a  fool.  Why  had  he  not 
gone  before.'^  Why  not  at  Christmas-time?  If  the  mere  intention 
could  bring  about  this  lightness  of  heart,  this  heavenly  clearness 
of  vision,  this  certainty  of  purpose,  this  deep  joy,  why  had  he 
not  had  all  these  long  ago?  She  was,  he  did  not  doubt,  prettier 
than  ever,  but  it  was  not  her  prettiness  which  he  valued,  it  was 
her  youth,  her  steadfastness,  her  devotion.  He  was  certain  that 
she  loved  him,  he  remembered  with  amusement  his  short-lived 
jealousy. 

He  speculated  as  he  drove  upon  the  rarity  of  human  happi- 
ness. His  father's  life  —  how  dull,  how  arduous,  how  ill-rewarded ! 
Mayne's  —  how  favorable  from  without,  how  hollow  within ! 
What  undeserved  calamity  had  visited  Fetzer  —  foolish  Fetzer 
to  whom  he  had  listened  so  obediently!  What  disappointment 
Levis  had  suffered!  How  little  satisfaction  he  himself  had  had 
and  with  what  high  hope  he  had  begun !  But  here  was  happiness 
within  reach! 


250  ELLEN  LEVIS 

He  noticed  with  sharpened  observation  as  he  drove  north, 
those  changes  in  the  landscape  with  which  he  had  been  famihar 
in  his  youth;  he  would  point  them  out  sometime  to  Ellen.  He 
drove  rapidly  and  unweariedly,  his  depression  passing,  feeling 
that  he  understood  the  joy  of  the  aviator.  His  route  lay  to  the 
east  of  Chestnut  Ridge,  but  he  would  see  presently  a  country 
similar  to  that  in  which  he  had  been  born  and  had  spent  his  youth. 

He  did  not  think  of  Hilda,  sitting  heavily  by  the  shaded  win- 
dow; his  thoughts  leaped  ahead.  He  drove  on  and  on  like  one 
possessed. 

*'I  could  give  her  riches  and  ease  and  travel,"  he  said  to  him- 
self. "It  wouldn't  be  an  unfair  exchange  for  youth."  It  may 
have  been  the  gathering  dusk,  it  may  have  been  a  springing 
breeze,  but  a  cool  wind  seemed  to  blow  across  his  very  heart. 
To  wait  another  five  years  or  ten !  He  must  have  Ellen  now. 

He  was  tempted  to  stop  as  twilight  fell,  but  he  changed  his 
mind.  He  had  come  to  the  point  when  fifty  miles  nearer  her  was 
a  goal  to  be  desired.  He  could  reach  her,  he  believed,  before  noon 
of  the  next  day ;  he  did  not  care  where  he  slept  or  whether  he  ate. 
He  had  ceased  to  think  of  her  good  or  of  his  own  honor  or  of  her 
father  —  he  thought  of  but  one  matter. 

"It  won't  hurt  her  to  be  kissed,"  he  said  to  himself,  smiling. 
His  thoughts  came  disjointedly,  sometimes  they  expressed  them- 
selves in  single  words —  "Adorable"  .  .  .  "hungry"  .  .  .  "her 
dark  eyes"  .  .  .  "peace"  .  .  .  Once  he  laughed  aloud.  "It  won't 
hurt  her  mind,  she'll  blossom  like  a  rose!"  Sometimes  he  smiled 
grimly.  Fate  should  not  cheat  him,  let  her  set  her  trap  never  so 
well!  There  was,  he  believed,  nothing  between  him  and  the 
satisfaction  of  his  desire  but  a  few  hours  of  swift  driving. 

He  was  so  occupied  with  his  own  thoughts  that  he  did  not 
realize  till  darkness  was  almost  complete  that  he  had  taken  a 
wrong  turn.  He  stopped  his  car  and  got  out,  a  tall  gray  figure  in 
the  dusk,  and  surveyed  the  landscape,  and  discovered  that  he 
had  come  into  a  country  like  the  country  of  his  youth.  He  could 
not  look  far  in  any  direction,  for  low,  bleak  hills  had  closed  in 
upon  him.  Through  a  cleft  between  two  of  them  the  sun  cast  a 
last  reflected  gleam.  Seeing  no  dim  human  habitation,  he  studied 
the  road  —  though  it  was  little  traveled,  he  believed  that  it 
would  be  best  to  go  on.  In  the  next  valley  there  would  doubtless 


ELLEN  LEVIS  251 

be  a  village  where  they  could  set  him  straight.  The  pale  light  was 
on  his  left;  the  road  led  at  least  in  the  right  direction.  Then  sud- 
denly he  smiled.  Memory  played  queer  tricks  —  a  forgotten 
fragment  of  poetry,  recited  often  by  his  father,  surprised  him: 

"Naught  in  the  distance  but  the  evening,  naught 
To  point  my  footsteps  further!  At  the  thought 
A  great  black  bird,  Apollyon's  bosom  friend. 
Sailed  past,  nor  beat  his  wide  wing,  dragon-penned. 
That  brushed  my  cap  —  perchance  the  guide  I  sought." 

He  shivered  suddenly.  This  was  a  sinister  landscape;  familiar 
as  such  scenes  had  been  to  him  in  his  youth,  he  should  not  like 
to  be  held  here  for  the  night.  Alas,  his  poor  father  had  had  no 
other  landscape  to  look  upon  in  all  his  latter  years ! 

He  stepped  out  of  the  car  and  mounted  a  little  bank,  and  dis- 
cerned far  ahead  a  hopeful  gleam.  Driving  on  carefully  and 
slowly,  he  saw  with  relief  that  the  light  shone  from  the  window 
of  a  small,  faintly  outlined  house.  Amusedly,  as  he  pushed  open 
the  sagging  gate,  he  went  on  with  his  appropriate  verses. 

"What  in  the  midst  lay  but  the  tower  itself? 
The  round,  squat  tower,  blind  as  a  fool's  heart. 
Built  of  brown  stone,  without  a  counterpart 
In  the  whole  world  — " 

He  knocked  at  the  door,  but  there  was  no  answer.  He  knocked 
again  more  heavily.  There  was  a  light,  there  must  be  human 
beings  about;  perhaps  the  occupant  had  gone  to  drive  home  the 
cow.  Perhaps  a  deaf  person  lived  here.  He  stepped  to  the  w^in- 
dow  and  peered  in. 

The  interior  w^as  like  a  hundred  interiors  which  he  had  seen 
in  his  childhood,  a  little  room  which  was  at  once  kitchen  and 
living-room,  its  furniture  a  bare  pine  table,  a  few  chairs,  a  half- 
dozen  cooking-vessels,  dirty,  out-of-date  calendars  pinned 
against  the  wall,  rags  in  a  broken  sash,  and,  hanging  on  a  nail, 
a  miner's  grimy  coat  and  a  woman's  shawl.  He  had  driven  with 
his  father  to  such  houses  as  this  a  hundred  times  and  had  sat 
waiting  in  the  buggy  or  on  the  grass  by  the  roadside  amusing 
himself  with  childish  games.  Sometimes  he  had  been  puzzled 
and  distressed  by  a  sound  whose  cause  he  then  understood  but 
dimly.  Memory  played  him  another  trick,  it  caused  him  to  hear 
the  same  sound  now. 


252  ELLEN  LEVIS 

He  could  not  see  into  the  inner  room,  perhaps  the  deaf  person 
was  there;  he  knocked  again  and  opened  the  door.  Then  he  laid 
his  hand  across  his  lips.  The  sound  had  not  been  remembered  — 
it  had  been  heard.  It  proceeded  from  the  inner  room. 

"  What 's  the  matter?  "  he  asked  loudly  and  impatiently.  "  I  've 
come  to  ask  my  way.  Is  any  one  ill?" 

He  saw  that  a  distorted  figure  lay  upon  a  low  bed.  Fearing 
that  here  was  an  emergency  which  had  been  repellent  to  him 
from  his  youth,  he  went  unwillingly  toward  the  inner  room  and 
stood  with  his  hand  upon  the  jamb. 

"What  is  the  trouble?"  he  asked  again. 

With  painful  effort  the  woman  turned  and  looked  up  at  him. 
It  was  not  as  he  had  feared;  her  need  was  of  a  different  sort. 
Upon  her  pale  face  stood  drops  of  perspiration  and  she  clutched 
her  thin  chest  with  both  hands.  It  was  the  same  agony  which 
had  smitten  Edward  Levis  with  merciful  swiftness,  here  long 
drawn  out.  He  had  seen  but  a  few  cases,  but  he  recognized  it  as 
different  from  all  other  sorts  of  anguish.  But  he  could  not  be 
delayed ! 

"Bill's  went  for  the  doctor,"  said  a  faint  voice  from  the  bed. 

"How  far  has  he  gone?" 

"There's  none  nearer  than  Weller." 

"What!"  Stephen  gave  a  great  start.  Weller!  Then  he  had 
veered  far  to  the  west!  This  was  a  place  he  knew.  He  looked 
back  over  his  shoulder  into  the  outer  room  and  into  the  darkness 
beyond  the  door.  He  recalled  the  neighborhood,  the  roads,  the 
ragged  outlines  of  the  ugly  hills,  the  very  house.  Outside  this 
gate  he  had  sat  in  his  father's  buggy  and  waited  and  waited.  He 
had  heard  his  father's  voice  in  the  magic  formula  which  he  said 
at  dying  beds,  "Credo  in  Deum  Patrem  omnipotentem  " — it 
was  here,  he  remembered  distinctly,  at  a  Roman  Catholic  bed- 
side. No,  he  was  dreaming,  life  did  not  present  such  strange 
coincidences.  He  saw  that  the  agonized  figure  was  relaxed;  he 
heard  himself  asking,  "Is  there  no  doctor  at  Chestnut  Ridge?'* 

"Not  now.  They  had  one  after  the  other,  but  they  didn't 
stay." 

"When  did  your  husband  leave?" 

"A  half -hour  ago,  I  guess.  It  seems  longer.  I  guess  the  next 
spell '11  finish  me." 


ELLEN  LEVIS  253 

"Did  he  walk?" 

"He  thought  perhaps  he  could  get  a  ride.  But  there's  three" 
—  the  sentence  was  taken  up  after  a  long  pause  —  "three  grog- 
shops." 

"Are  you  afraid  to  stay  alone  a  little  longer?  I  have  a  car.  I 
can  send  the  doctor  back." 

Glistening  drops  appeared  upon  the  pale  face. 

"Oh,  my  God,  don't  leave  me ! "  She  raised  herself  feebly  upon 
her  elbow,  animated  by  a  wild  hope.  "You  ain't  a  doctor,  I 
suppose!" 

"I'm  not  a  general  practitioner." 

She  sank  down,  accepting  the  excuse  as  final. 

"It  don't  make  any  difference,  the  next  one '11  finish  me."  She 
lay  quiet  as  death,  fearing  to  breathe.  It  might  be  that  another 
moment  would  bring  a  fresh  spasm,  it  might  be  that  there  would 
be  no  other  for  hours. 

Stephen  looked  down  upon  her.  He  could  see  the  pale  face 
with  a  black  smutch  across  it;  he  saw  an  empty  bottle  on  a 
chair  by  the  bed.  He  had  had  no  experience  in  this  department 
of  medicine  for  twenty  years,  and  his  practice  had  been  limited 
to  hospital  work  under  the  eye  of  an  instructor.  He  believed  that 
of  simple  specifics  a  mustard  plaster  would  relieve  —  there  was 
certainly  no  other  drug  to  be  had  here. 

Suddenly  the  pupils  of  his  eyes  dilated,  then  contracted.  His 
gaze  was  fixed  absently  on  his  own  hand,  still  lifted  against  the 
door  frame.  It  was  a  slender  white  hand.  Across  the  back  the 
blood  from  the  scratch,  now  many  hours  old,  had  dried.  The 
wound  looked  for  some  reason  unnatural,  and  he  moved  his 
hand  with  a  horizontal  motion  close  to  his  eyes  and  put  it  back 
against  the  door  frame.  He  noticed  with  quickened  perception 
that  he  placed  it  exactly  upon  the  spot  which  it  had  already 
made  warm.  Then  he  laid  it  in  the  other  hand  and  stroked  it.  A 
drop  of  blood  oozed  out,  but  it  was  not  the  blood  which  alarmed 
him,  but  the  puffy  redness  of  the  wound,  the  thick,  ominous 
raising  of  either  lip  and  a  dull  pain  which  he  felt  clear  to  his 
elbow.  He  had  a  flask  of  peroxide  in  his  bag,  but  he  had  not  used 
it,  and  now  more  drastic  treatment  was  required.  It  was  required, 
moreover,  at  once;  an  infection  like  this  broke  down  the  tissues 
with  incredible  swiftness. 


254  ELLEN  LEVIS 

His  hesitation,  his  silence,  his  effort  to  arrange  his  thought, 
roused  a  suspicion  in  the  mind  of  the  woman  on  the  low  bed. 
She  raised  herself  to  a  sitting  position,  trying  to  hold  together 
the  ragged  gown  which  half  covered  her.  Of  his  importance,  his 
wealth,  his  intellect,  she  had  no  conception  and  for  none  of  them 
would  she  have  had  any  regard. 

"For  God's  sake,  don't  go  away!" 

Stephen  still  cradled  his  hand.  He  looked  curiously  at  the 
wretched  creature,  now  lying  prone  and  exhausted.  He  frowned 
in  the  effort  to  concentrate  his  mind  upon  a  new  and  very  simple 
problem.  He  believed  that  his  hand  was  seriously  infected  and 
that  it  should  be  treated  at  once,  that  haste  was  imperative.  He 
believed  also  that  the  woman  left  alone  might  die.  A  cold  sweat 
broke  out  upon  him.  He  had  been  acutely  impatient  with  his 
father  because  he  had  not  weighed  his  valuable  life  against  two 
worthless  lives  and  had  suffered  himself  to  be  murdered.  His 
father,  however,  had  merely  taken  a  chance,  there  had  been  a 
possibility  of  escape,  but  for  him  there  was  no  escape.  The  mis- 
chief was  done;  unless  he  had  speedy  aid  he  might  die  in  agony. 

He  felt  his  heart  contract  and  laid  his  hand  upon  it.  To  die ! 
He  was  not  old.  Life  which  he  had  recently  so  bitterly  com- 
plained of  —  what  inestimable  happiness  it  offered !  What  de- 
light for  the  eye !  What  intense  pleasure  for  the  mind !  And  Ellen 
—  what  of  Ellen,  with  whom  he  had  expected  to  be  in  a  few 
hours  .5^  He  had  anticipated  rapture  in  the  assurance  of  her  love. 
He  might  now  never  see  her.  It  was  curious  that  it  was  easier  to 
risk  his  life  than  to  forget  his  passion! 

The  moments  passed;  there  was  no  sound  within  or  without 
the  little  house;  the  woman  still  lay  motionless.  It  might  be  that 
she  slept;  he  realized  basely  that  a  step  would  carry  him  away. 

Then,  quite  suddenly  and  simply,  he  knew  that  for  him  there 
was  no  choice.  He  had  lived,  for  all  his  suffering,  selfishly,  his 
heart  hardened  and  not  softened  by  the  single  affliction  of  his 
life.  He  had  done  many  kindnesses,  but  he  had  never  made  a 
sacrifice.  He  had  helped  the  poor,  but  it  had  cost  him  nothing; 
he  had  performed  almost  miraculous  cures,  but  they  had  been 
performed  in  a  sense  easily. 

Yet  he  was  not  at  heart  selfish,  and  now,  rising  from  depths 
almost  unstirred  since  his  youth,  a  single  powerful  impulse 


ELLEN  LEVIS  255 

moved  him.  He  had  come  unknowing  and  unsuspecting  to  his 
Dark  Tower,  which,  well  for  him !  was  set  in  a  familiar  landscape, 
presided  over  by  the  guiding  spirit  of  his  youth.  There  was  a 
verse  which  said,  "Train  up  a  child  in  the  way  he  should  go, 
and  when  he  is  old,  he  will  not  depart  from  it."  He  had  been 
trained  by  precept  and  example;  was  his  father's  last  hour  made 
easy  by  confidence  in  his  ultimate  return?  Did  his  pleading  gaze 
ask  only  that  the  period  of  departure  might  not  be  long?  As 
tenderly  as  though  he  had  been  his  father,  he  bent  over  the  poor 
bed,  forgetting  life  and  all  its  joys  and  Ellen. 

He  remembered  now  that  there  was  a  spring  a  few  yards 
away.  He  had  been  sent  there  by  his  father  and  he  had  dipped 
the  clear  water  from  an  open  space  beside  a  bed  of  water-cress. 
Making  his  way  thither  in  the  starlight,  he  filled  a  pail.  He 
found  a  box  half  filled  with  kindling  and  built  a  fire  and  set  the 
water  on  it,  and  fetched  his  traveling  bag.  He  opened  the  sore 
wound  on  his  hand  and  poured  into  it  half  the  contents  of  his 
bottle  of  peroxide  and  bound  it  up.  He  found  in  a  dirty  cup- 
board a  supply  of  mustard,  provided  possibly  for  this  emer- 
gency and  forgotten.  He  thought  with  a  faint  smile  of  Miss 
Knowlton  —  if  her  professional  eye  could  see  him !  He  remem- 
bered that  he  had  sat  for  a  long  time  on  the  weedy  bank  across 
the  road  when  he  and  his  father  had  been  here  —  his  car  stood 
beside  the  exact  spot.  He  seemed  to  hear  now  distinctly  his 
father's  voice  —  would  it  be  necessary  for  him  to  console  the 
dying?  He  could  not  offer  a  formula  upon  which  he  had  not 
thought  for  years ! 

He  heard  a  moan  in  the  inner  room  and  returned  quickly.  The 
woman  had  turned  once  more  on  her  back  and  had  seized  her 
thin  chest.  Lip  and  brow  were  beaded.  He  worked  quickly,  the 
perspiration  standing  on  his  own  brow.  When  he  had  done  all 
he  could,  he  knelt  down  on  the  floor  and  took  the  clutching 
hands  in  his.  He  spoke,  scarcely  aware  that  he  was  speaking, 
offering  all  the  comfort  that  he  could  give.  He  had  never  spoken 
to  Hilda  in  this  fashion;  not  even  quite  in  this  fashion  had  he 
dreamed  of  speaking  to  Ellen. 

"I'll  stay  with  you.  I'm  sorry  for  you.  It  will  be  better  soon. 
I'm  sure  it  will  be  better." 

When  the  spasm  was  over  he  rose  to  his  feet.  In  the  cessation 


256  ELLEN  LEVIS 

of  agony  sleep  came  quickly.  He  stood  motionless  for  a  long 
time,  occupied  with  strange  thoughts.  He  was  intensely,  in- 
credibly happy;  he  understood  suddenly  that  his  father  had  had 
this  happiness  often;  his  own  danger  became  negligible,  he  quite 
forgot  it.  Even  when,  as  he  moved  about,  the  pain  in  his  hand 
quickened,  it  was  still  negligible. 


CHAPTER  XXXV 

AN  UNDELIVERED  MESSAGE 

Dawn,  which  came  as  slowly  as  the  dawns  of  winter,  brought 
a  returning  Bill  in  the  car  of  a  physician  whom  he  had  found 
after  much  forgetful  wandering.  A  lifeless  body  lay  upon  the 
bed. 

Stephen  looked  curiously  at  the  old  doctor  who  descended 
stiffly  from  his  car. 

"You  don't  know  me.  Dr.  Weller?" 

"No." 

"I'm  Albert  Lanfair's  son." 

"How  do  you  happen  to  be  here?" 

"  I  lost  the  road  and  came  in  to  ask  directions,  and  once  here, 
could  do  nothing  but  stay."  He  meant  to  exhibit  his  hand,  but 
thought  better  of  it.  He  must  get  home  without  wasting  time. 
He  had  not  undone  the  bandage,  he  felt  less  pain,  and  in  the 
cheerful  light  of  day  believed  that  he  had  exaggerated  the 
seriousness  of  his  condition.  If  trouble  appeared,  however,  he 
wished  to  be  at  home. 

He  drove  with  reckless  speed  southward,  remembering  grimly, 

"The  King  of  France,  with  twenty  thousand  men. 
Marched  up  the  hill  and  then  marched  doM'n  again." 

He  tried  not  to  think  of  Ellen;  when,  sometimes,  her  face 
appeared  before  him,  his  cheeks  burned.  The  strange  night  had 
affected  all  his  thoughts;  his  heart  had  somehow  changed;  he 
saw  clearly  what  he  would  have  made  of  Ellen. 

As  he  drove  into  Harrisburg  he  felt  the  first  premonition  of  a 
chill,  and  understood  its  significance.  The  pain  in  his  hand  had 
returned  and  when  he  stepped  into  his  office  he  stumbled.  The 
young  assistant  looked  up  from  her  desk  and  Miss  Knowlton 
appeared  at  once  from  the  inner  room.  He  held  out  his  hand. 

"Ever  see  anything  like  that.^" 

Miss  Knowlton  undid  the  bandage.  At  his  touch  a  blush  cov- 
ered her  pale  cheek,  but  when  she  looked  up  the  color  had 
vanished. 


258  ELLEN  LEVIS 

I 

"Dr.  Lanfair!  What  have  you  done?" 

*'I  scratched  myself  on  a  wire.  It's  nothing." 

"A  girl  in  the  hospital  jabbed  her  hand  with  an  icepick  and 
infected  it,  and  it  had  red  streaks  round  it  like  this!" 

"Well,  she  has  her  hand,  has  n't  she.^^"  asked  Stephen  banter- 
ingly. 

"She  nearly  lost  it.  You're  going  to  see  Dr.  Salter?" 

"Yes;  telephone  for  him,  there's  a  good  girl." 

He  crossed  the  passageway  to  the  library  and  sat  down,  sud- 
denly fearing  that  his  pain  might  bring  tears;  then  he  laughed 
at  himself.  There  was  nothing  seriously  the  matter  with  him. 

"It  was  foolish  to  have  called  you,"  he  apologized  to  Dr. 
Salter.  "Miss  Knowlton  is  to  blame." 

Dr.  Salter  bent  above  the  outstretched  hand,  a  stout,  blue- 
eyed,  cheerful  soul  who  possessed  the  secrets  of  hundreds  of  men 
and  women,  and  held  in  spite  of  them  the  most  hopeful  views 
of  humanity.  He  had  known  Hilda  and  Hilda's  mother. 

"What  in  the  world  have  you  done?"  he  asked. 

"I  scratched  it  on  a  wire." 

"Why  did  n't  you  come  home?" 

"I  did.  I'm  here." 

Having  concluded  a  cruel  opening  of  the  wound,  the  doctor 
gave  a  hovering  Miss  Knowlton  minute  directions. 

"You  have  an  ugly-looking  hand,  Lanfair." 

For  the  moment  Stephen  felt  neither  pain  nor  fear,  only  a 
leaping  excitement. 

"I'm  not  to  be  frightened,"  he  said  with  a  defiant  laugh. 

By  evening  he  walked  the  library  floor.  At  ten  o'clock  he  went 
to  his  room  and  walked  there.  Miss  Knowlton  said  lightly  that 
she  would  spend  the  night  —  the  doctor  wished  the  dressing 
changed  frequently. 

"Your  professional  manner  is  absurd,"  declared  Stephen. 
"You'll  come  presently  and  take  my  temperature  and  watch 
to  see  that  I  don't  read  it." 

Miss  Knowlton  smiled  and  put  a  thermometer  under  his 
tongue  and  placed  herself  beside  him,  her  hand  on  his  wrist,  her 
air  important.  She  had  sent  for  a  fresh  uniform  which  billowed 
about  her  when  she  walked. 

At  midnight  Stephen  went  to  bed.  Exhaustion  dulled  his  pain 


ELLEN  LEVIS  259 

for  half  an  hour;  then  he  sat  up,  roused,  he  believed,  by  a 
ghastly  dream  of  Ellen  in  danger.  But  he  knew  in  a  second  that 
it  was  not  Ellen's  danger.  When  he  lifted  his  hand,  it  felt  heavy 
and  tight  and  burned  like  fire,  and  he  understood  exactly  what 
might  happen  to  him.  The  infection  sujffered  by  his  father  had 
affected  him  slowly,  paralyzing  irremediably  both  body  and 
brain;  this  was  different;  it  could  be  fought,  but  it  must  be 
fought  quickly  and  with  cruel  weapons. 

Miss  Knowlton,  hearing  him  stir,  came  in  from  the  next  room. 

"I'll  look  at  your  hand,"  she  said  in  a  new,  smooth  voice. 
"You'd  better  lie  down."  Stephen  obeyed,  his  mind  not  on  his 
pain,  but  on  a  graver  necessity.  "It  does  n't  look  any  worse,'* 
said  Miss  Knowlton  when  the  bandage  was  again  in  place. 
"Would  you  like  me  to  sit  by  you?" 

Stephen's  negative  sounded  drowsy.  But  he  was  not  drowsy. 
There  was  an  amazing  fact  to  which  he  must  give  his  mind  and 
he  wished  to  be  alone.  He  saw  his  father  lying  with  half-closed 
eyes  upon  his  pillow;  he  saw  that  he  himself  lay  fever-flushed 
with  a  swollen,  bandaged,  torturing  object  by  his  side,  and  that 
he  had  come  to  the  same  dark  brink.  His  father  had  stepped  out 
bravely;  he  did  not  believe  that  he  should  go  bravely.  His  father 
had  had  a  hope,  but  he  had  no  hope.  When  his  father  had  re- 
cited the  creed,  he  had  spoken  with  conviction;  but  he  had  no 
convictions. 

He  believed  suddenly  that  even  to  say  the  words  would  help 
if  he  could  remember  them.  Childishly  pleased,  he  recited, 
"Credo  in  Deum  Patrem  omnipotentem,"  in  a  tone  which 
brought  Miss  Knowlton  to  his  side. 

"Did  you  speak  to  me?"  She  began  to  open  the  bandage. 

"I  was  only  trying  to  remember  some  old  Latin." 

Miss  Knowlton  remembered  afterward  that  as  Stephen  said 
this  and  as  she  saw  his  wrist,  purple  above  the  bandage,  the 
market-wagons  had  begun  to  rumble  past  and  dawn  was  in  the 
sky. 

"I'm  going  for  hot  water,"  she  said  soothingly  as  one  speaks 
to  a  sick  man. 

Outside  the  door  she  found  Miss  Mac  Vane,  pale  and  shocked, 
her  hand  lifted  to  rap. 

"There  was  a  call  on  the  telephone  from  the  Sanatorium," 


260  ELLEN  LEVIS 

she  said  in  an  awed  tone,  her  eyes  blinking  behind  her  thick 
glasses.  "I  don't  know  what  to  do  about  it." 

"Anything  the  matter?" 

"Mrs.  Lanfair  is  dead,"  said  Miss  Mac  Vane.  "They  say 
'suddenly,'  that  is  all." 

Miss  Knowlton  grew  a  little  paler  and  more  important. 

"Well,  he  can't  be  told  now,"  she  said.  "You  get  Dr.  Salter, 
quickly,  will  you?" 

Stephen  did  not  realize  that  daylight  had  not  yet  fully  come 
when  Dr.  Salter  appeared  in  his  room.  It  seemed  a  long,  long 
time  since  he  had  come  home  —  was  it  a  day  and  night  or  two 
days  and  nights  or  four?  He  did  n't  think  it  queer  that  there  was 
another  man  with  Salter  —  nothing  seemed  queer  or  of  any 
moment  whatsoever,  not  even  a  strange  question  put  to  him. 
They  did  not  mean  to  let  Stephen  die. 

"Lanfair,  can  you  understand  me?" 

"Oh,  yes!"  Stephen  laughed. 

"  Do  you  trust  Mayne  and  me  to  use  our  best  judgment  for 

you?" 

"About  what?  "  asked  Stephen.  In  a  moment  of  full  conscious- 
ness he  recognized  Mayne,  who  bore  upon  his  expansive  face  the 
record  of  more  than  one  shock.  If  clearness  of  mind  had  lasted 
for  another  instant,  Stephen  might  have  suspected  the  cause  of 
Mayne's  disturbance  of  mind.  But  he  grew  confused  and  asked 
in  a  jovial  and  impertinent  tone,  "What's  the  matter  with  you, 
old  boy?" 

"About  your  welfare,"  said  Mayne  earnestly. 

"Oh,  bosh!"  cried  Stephen,  and  turned  on  his  side.  There  was 
but  one  thing  he  desired,  peace  to  pursue  a  search.  What  was  it 
his  father  had  said?  He  presently  began  to  mix  his  English  and 
Latin.  He  knew  that  that  which  he  sought  was  an  ineffable  hap- 
piness, but  he  could  not  quite  grasp  it. 


CHAPTER  XXXVI 

MATTHEW  AND  ELLEN 

Ellen  sent  to  Harrisburg  no  notification  of  her  coming.  She 
was  now  convinced  that  she  had  thorough  control  of  herself, 
and  that  she  could  meet  Stephen  safely.  He  might  be  away  — 
the  possibility  brought  a  painful  moment  of  mixed  misery  and 
relief.  Shifting  her  heavy  bag  from  hand  to  hand,  she  walked  up 
the  sunny  street,  past  the  jewelry  shop  of  Mr.  Goldstein,  past 
small  hotels  in  whose  windows  idle  men  sat  drowsily,  to  Front 
Street.  The  river  seemed  to  have  no  current,  but  lay  a  burnished 
sheet  under  the  low  and  glaring  sun.  In  the  park  a  few  sprawled 
figures  occupied  the  benches. 

She  rang  the  bell,  and  when  no  one  answered,  she  opened  the 
door  with  a  key  which  she  had  hesitated  to  use,  and  putting 
down  her  bag  walked  through  the  hall  and  passageway  to  the 
oflBces.  It  was  long  after  working  hours,  but  Miss  Knowlton  and 
Miss  Mac  Vane  would  be  putting  desks  and  files  in  order  and 
closing  the  day's  records.  She  believed  that  they  would  be  glad 
to  see  her,  and  she  longed  for  the  refuge  of  their  homely  femi- 
ninity. She  now  allied  herself  in  spirit  with  them  and  their  kind. 

But  neither  Miss  Mac  Vane  nor  Miss  Knowlton  was  at  work. 
The  office  had  an  unused  appearance;  shades  had  not  been 
lifted,  and  even  in  the  dim  light  she  could  see  on  all  the  furniture 
a  film  of  dust.  The  air  was  not  merely  cool,  it  was  damp,  and  her 
final  impression  of  strangeness  deepened  to  a  fear  of  calamity. 
The  house  seemed  to  be  empty. 

She  returned  with  a  quickly  beating  heart  to  the  front  hall. 
In  the  library  shades  were  irregularly  drawn  and  here  also  dust 
covered  the  polished  surfaces  of  tables  and  chairs.  One  small 
article  of  furniture  had  been  moved  and  at  it  she  stared  while  a 
deeper  chill  smote  her  heart.  It  was  Hilda's  little  tabourette, 
upon  which  now,  as  formerly,  lay  matches  and  boxes  of  cigar- 
ettes. She  leaned  helplessly  against  the  door.  Had  Hilda  come 
back? 

When  she  heard  steps  approaching  she  turned  slowly  and  in 


262  ELLEN  LEVIS 

unreasonable  terror.  But  they  were  heavier  and  slower  steps 
than  Hilda's.  Still  her  step  might  have  changed !  She  looked  to- 
ward the  stairway  and  beheld  Professor  Mayne,  large,  elegant, 
cigarette  in  hand.  Her  heart  leaped  to  a  more  terrible  conclusion 
—  Stephen  was  dead ! 

Mayne  regarded  her  with  his  bland  smile.  He  had  lived  re- 
cently through  two  harrowing  experiences,  but  one  was  on 
the  whole  a  relief,  and  the  other,  while  it  shocked  him,  did  not 
touch  his  own  person  or  habits. 

"What  is  it  you  wish.'^"  he  asked  kindly. 

"I'm  looking  for  Miss  Mac  Vane." 

"You  mean  Dr.  Lanfair's  secretary?" 

"Yes." 

"She  has  unfortunately  been  somewhat  indisposed.  She  is 
absent." 

"Is  Miss  Knowlton  here?" 

"She  is  in  the  hospital  attending  Dr.  Lanfair." 

"Is  he  ill?" 

"He  has  had  an  infected  hand,  a  severe  case  of  septicaemia, 
but  we  have  saved  him.  He  is  improving." 

Ellen  forgot  all  her  resolutions. 

"Can  he  be  seen?" 

Mayne  shook  his  head,  then  looked  at  her  curiously.  Was  she 
an  employee  of  Stephen's,  like  the  middle-aged  women  who 
were  so  concerned  about  him? 

"Oh,  I  remember  you!"  he  said.  "You  are  the  young  woman 
who  assisted  with  my  niece.  Are  you  still  employed  here?  " 

A  foolish  red  appeared  in  Ellen's  cheeks. 

"No." 

"Did  you  know  that  my  niece  had  —  had  passed  away?" 
Mayne  almost  said  "expired." 

"No,"  answered  Ellen.  She  felt  that  she  was  not  expected  to 
make  any  comment  and  she  made  none.  She  stood  awkwardly 
looking  about.  "Is  there  anything  I  can  do?" 

"I  believe  not,  thank  you,"  answered  Mayne  in  his  booming 
voice.  He  passed  into  the  library  and  sat  down  in  Hilda's  corner 
of  the  sofa  and  lifted  a  newspaper. 

Thus  dismissed,  Ellen  lifted  her  heavy  bag  and  carried  it 
across  the  street  to  a  bench.  The  air  was  intensely  hot  and  she 


ELLEN  LEVIS  263 

was  hungry,  but  she  did  not  connect  weakness  or  hunger  with 
her  despair.  He  was  ill,  he  had  been  very  ill  or  he  would  not  be 
in  a  hospital.  And  he  had  sent  her  no  word!  Moreover,  she  had 
been  in  a  sense  turned  out!  Certainly  Fate  was  helping  her  to 
conquer  herself! 

Then,  suddenly,  a  desperate  longing  came  into  her  heart,  a 
longing  for  childhood,  for  innocence,  for  ignorance,  for  freedom 
from  this  consuming  passion.  She  wanted  her  father's  sheltering 
arm,  the  sound  of  his  voice.  Lacking  him,  she  thought  of  those 
nearest  her  in  blood  —  Grandfather  had  loved  her  and  so  had 
Matthew  and  iVmos.  She  believed  that  they  would  welcome  her. 
Twilight  was  at  hand;  it  was  the  hour  when  tired  men  and 
women  hasten  homeward;  she  too  would  go  home. 

She  walked  rapidly  toward  the  railroad  station.  At  the  Square, 
while  she  waited  for  a  break  in  the  line  of  automobiles,  she  saw 
in  a  group  of  Salvation  Army  workers  a  tall  brother  shepherding 
the  passers-by  to  positions  within  earshot  of  the  preacher's 
voice.  In  that  figure  she  could  not  be  mistaken,  it  was  the  first 
feature  of  a  familiar  landscape  seen  after  a  long  journey.  She 
did  not  stop  to  account  for  his  presence  or  his  blue  uniform,  she 
went  up  to  him  quickly. 

"Why,  Amos!" 

Amos  looked  down  at  her,  growing  first  pale,  then  crimson. 
She  had  become,  he  believed,  merely  a  part  of  the  fearful  and 
unrighteous  past;  she  had  vanished  entirely,  together  with  im- 
pulses to  worldliness  and  evil.  But  here  she  was,  looking  up  with 
her  dark  eyes  as  she  had  looked  when  she  was  a  little  girl.  Her 
eyes  seemed  unhappy,  and  his  heart  bounded.  Then  it  sank  like 
a  stone  and  uneasiness  succeeded  his  rapture. 

*'I'm  working  for  the  Lord,  Ellen,"  he  explained,  glancing  at 
the  group  of  singers  who  had  turned  to  look  for  him.  "I'm 
married." 

"Don't  you  live  with  Grandfather?'* 

"No." 

"Is  he  alone?" 

"He  does  n't  want  anybody,"  explained  Amos  quickly.  "He 
knows  he  has  only  to  ask  and  I'll  come."  The  sharp  whirr  of  a 
tambourine  summoned  him  imperatively;  it  spoke,  not  with  a 
religious,  but  with  a  domestic  sternness.  His  wife  had  been  ex- 


264  ELLEN  LEVIS 

pecting  him  to  bring  the  stranger  promptly  into  the  circle  of 
inquirers;  she  did  not  approve  of  this  lengthy  conversation. 

"I  must  go,"  said  Amos  uneasily.  "She  is  there." 

Back  in  the  noisy  group  Amos  neither  spoke  nor  sang.  When 
one  of  his  companions  began  to  pray,  he  removed  his  cap  and 
bent  his  beautiful  head.  But  he  was  not  praying,  he  was  thinking 
of  the  Kloster  and  the  past.  Now  that  he  was  in  the  world  he  was 
not  of  it.  He  was  like  a  monk  who  had  left  his  monastery  too  late. 
The  glare  of  the  sun  was  too  bright,  the  noise  of  the  world  too 
loud.  In  his  hard  day's  work  he  forgot  himself,  but  his  evening 
tasks,  his  public  orisons,  his  soliciting  of  strangers,  were  odious. 
There  were  times  when  he  bitterly  regretted  his  marriage;  there 
was  no  time,  indeed,  when  he  did  not  wish  it  undone.  But  he 
believed  that  in  seeking  to  win  souls  he  was  obeying  God,  and 
in  this  conviction  he  found  consolation. 

In  the  dingy  railroad  station  Ellen  waited  for  her  train.  The 
station  had  seemed  hitherto  an  opening  gateway;  she  had  thought 
it  vast  and  wonderful  when  she  had  arrived  with  her  father. 
Her  second  entrance,  when  she  came  to  make  her  living,  had 
been  more  sober.  Waiting  for  her  train  for  Ithaca,  scarcely  hear- 
ing Fetzer's  good-byes  because  she  was  thinking  of  Lanfair's, 
she  had  found  it  again  a  dazzling  portal.  Now,  at  last,  it  was  an 
entrance  to  prison.  She  believed  that  all  happiness  lay  behind 
her.  She  stepped  into  the  train,  and  when  she  reached  Ephrata 
went  her  way  on  foot. 

The  moon  shone  brightly  on  the  Kloster  and  on  Grandfather's 
cottage  and  on  the  white  tombstones  in  the  churchyard.  Ellen 
choked  back  a  sob;  her  absence  from  this  spot  reproached  her. 

It  was  a  long  time  before  Grandfather  answered  her  pounding. 

"It's  Ellen,"  she  called,  when  at  last  she  heard  his  hand  on 
the  latch.  "It's  very  late,  I  know." 

Grandfather  opened  the  door.  He  was  dazed;  the  moonlight 
was  not  bright  enough  to  make  her  outline  clear. 

"May  I  stay  here  to-night?" 

He  neither  greeted  her  nor  answered  her. 

"It  is  Ellen,  Grandfather." 

"Ellen?"  He  repeated  a  word  without  meaning. 

"May  I  stay  here  to-night?" 

He  seemed  now  to  see  her,  but  he  regarded  her  as  though  she 


ELLEN  LEVIS  265 

were  a  jinn  or  spook  or  other  baleful  creature  of  the  witching 
night. 

"I  never  turned  any  one  away,"  he  said  at  last  in  a  gentle  tone. 

It  was  clear  in  the  morning  that  she  was  regarded  not  only  as 
a  transient,  but  as  a  disturbing  visitor.  Grandfather  followed  a 
regular  routine  which  took  him  now  to  the  Saal,  now  to  Saron, 
now  out  into  the  fields,  as  the  brethren  might  have  traveled  a 
hundred  and  fifty  years  ago.  He  believed  himself  to  be,  indeed, 
one  of  them. 

In  the  afternoon  Ellen  took  up  her  journey  to  Matthew's. 
Inexpressibly  tired,  she  wanted  only  sleep  in  a  quiet  bed. 

She  saw  Matthew  crossing  from  the  house  to  the  barn  and 
called  to  him.  He  did  not  come  to  meet  her,  but  let  her  approach 
him,  which  was  exactly  like  Matthew.  His  face  was  set  in  a  som- 
ber expression,  his  shoulders  were  bent.  Seeming  neither  glad 
nor  sorry  to  see  her,  he  took  her  satchel  and  walked  with  her 
back  to  the  house. 

In  the  kitchen  the  old  chaotic  condition  persisted.  Esther  had 
achieved  the  object  of  her  life  and  had  gone  away  with  her  prize 
to  a  distant  farm,  and  Millie  had  had  a  succession  of  inefficient 
servants.  She  languidly  accepted  Ellen's  offered  help. 

"Where  are  your  grand  people?"  she  asked. 

''Mrs  Fetzer  has  left  there." 

"And  the  man,  where 's  he.^^" 

"He  has  been  ill." 

A  plate  slid  suddenly  from  Ellen's  hands  into  the  iron  sink. 
Her  course  appeared  incredible. 

"He's  ill,  and  I'm  here!"  she  said  to  herself.  "He  might  die 
and  I  not  see  him!" 

When  Matthew  said  at  supper  that  he  would  drive  to  the 
station  for  her  trunk,  she  asked  whether  she  might  go  with  him. 
She  saw  at  once  that  Millie  wished  to  go,  but  she  could  not  yield 
her  place.  From  the  drug-store  she  would  call  the  hospital  and 
talk  to  Miss  Knowlton  —  why  had  she  not  thought  of  it  this 
morning.'^  She  could  have  cried  with  relief.  She  was  sorry  that 
Millie  was  disappointed,  but  she  would  make  it  up  to  Millie 
twenty  times  over. 

The  drug-store  was  crowded  with  customers  for  ice-cream  and 
soda  water,  all  of  whom  were  trying  to  speak  above  a  strident 


266  ELLEN  LEVIS 

talking  machine  which  ground  out  a  lively  song.  Only  a  little 
man  of  one  of  the  plain  sects  seemed  anxious  to  hear  the  music 
at  the  same  time  that  he  was  a  bit  disturbed  by  his  own  pleasure. 
The  proprietor  and  the  customers  regarded  Ellen  curiously,  but 
did  not  recognize  her.  When  the  telephone  bell  rang,  all  looked 
at  her  and  ceased  speaking,  believing  that  she  was  calling  a  lover. 

The  talking  machine,  too,  was  silenced  and  she  knew  that 
every  word  could  be  heard  through  the  thin  booth.  Miss  Knowl- 
ton  could  not  come  to  the  telephone,  but  a  message  would  be 
given  her.  Ellen  inquired  for  Lanfair  and  was  told  in  the  opti- 
mistic tone  characteristic  of  hospitals  that  he  was  entirely  out  of 
danger.  She  opened  the  door  of  the  booth  weakly  and  paid  the 
charge.  Matthew  was  waiting  outside  and  she  climbed  into  the 
wagon.  She  would  have  liked  to  tell  him  everything,  but  that 
was  a  weakness.  He  had,  she  surmised,  enough  to  bear. 

She  was  conscious  of  an  added  coolness  in  Millie's  attitude, 
but  to  her  weary  mind  it  seemed  unimportant.  She  laid  her 
head  upon  the  pillow  which  had  been  hers  in  childhood,  and 
before  the  tears  were  dry  upon  her  cheeks  she  was  asleep. 

But  Millie's  attitude  was  not  unimportant.  Her  disposition 
was  now  thoroughly  established;  she  was  worn  and  sour  and 
unhappy  and  she  found  pleasure  only  in  believing  herself  ill- 
treated.  She  had  never  forgotten  that  Matthew  had  taken  Ellen 
to  the  Kloster  two  years  ago  without  inviting  her,  and  the  repe- 
tition of  the  offense  was  grossly  insulting.  It  was  not  he  whom 
she  blamed,  but  Ellen.  She  would  have  been  glad  to  believe  that 
Ellen  was  deliberately  trying  to  "come  between"  them. 

The  next  day  Ellen  wrote  to  Stephen.  She  said  that  she  had 
gone  to  the  house  in  Harrisburg  and  had  heard  from  Professor 
Mayne  about  his  illness  and  that  he  was  better.  She  had  then 
come  to  her  brother's.  She  had  called  the  hospital  and  had  heard 
that  he  was  still  better.  She  was  sorry  that  he  had  been  ill.  An 
undefined  feeling  restrained  her  from  speaking  of  Hilda. 

In  a  week  she  had  an  answer  from  Miss  Knowlton.  Dr.  Lanfair 
was  improving  and  was  glad  that  she  was  with  her  brother  — 
that  was  the  best  place  for  her  to  be.  He  would  be  well  enough 
in  a  day  or  two  to  leave  the  hospital,  then  he  and  Fickes  and 
Miss  Knowlton  would  go  to  the  shore.  Even  though  it  was  Miss 
Knowlton  who  wrote,  Ellen  did  not  visualize  him  as  helpless. 


ELLEN  LEVIS  267 

She  cried  at  night,  but  by  day  she  went  quietly  about  innumer- 
able tasks.  The  postscript  of  Miss  Knowl ton's  letter  was  a 
"Finis '*  at  the  end  of  a  story:  "We  hope  that  you  will  pay  us  a 
call  on  your  way  back  to  college." 

She  grew  slowly  and  miserably  aware  of  the  domestic  volcano 
over  which  she  lived.  Millie  believed  now  with  all  her  heart  that 
she  had  come  to  make  trouble;  though  Ellen's  help  lightened 
her  tasks  by  more  than  half  and  enabled  her  to  put  on  flesh  she 
made  it  appear  constantly,  by  devices  difficult  to  describe,  but 
known  to  all  who  are  compelled  to  associate  with  women  of  her 
type,  that  she  believed  the  help  to  be  unwillingly  given. 

For  a  long  time  Ellen  did  not  understand  the  exact  source  of 
this  resentment.  She  laid  her  hand  as  of  old  on  Matthew's  shoul- 
der; she  walked  with  him  about  the  farm  on  Sunday  afternoons; 
she  pored  with  him  over  calculations.  Most  foolishly  of  all  she 
tried  to  improve  the  extraordinary  speech  of  little  Matthew. 

The  summer  was  intensely  warm;  through  July  the  opening 
of  an  outer  door  brought  heat  like  a  leaping  flame  into  one's  face, 
and  the  nights  were  often  one  long  wish  for  morning.  Ellen  grew 
gradually  accustomed  to  the  hard  labor,  to  the  rising  before 
dawn,  to  the  insufferable  afternoons.  She  shared  Matthew's 
anxiety  about  the  harvest;  it  seemed  that  before  the  wheat  crop 
was  brought  in  destructive  storms  must  break. 

Sometimes  in  the  late  afternoon  when  vitality  was  at  its  lowest 
point,  she  remembered  the  airy  rooms  in  which  she  had  lived  last 
summer,  the  bare  floors,  the  furniture  in  chintz  covers,  the  drift- 
ing of  white  curtains  in  a  gentle  breeze.  But  of  last  summer  she 
did  not  often  let  herself  think.  She  heard  no  word  from  Stephen, 
nor  sent  him  any.  She  remembered  now  half-acknowledged 
dreams,  more  vivid  in  retrospect  than  they  had  been  in  actuality, 
of  position  and  travel  and  great  possessions,  and  her  heart 
burned,  now  with  self-reproach,  now  with  resentment  at  life's 
cruel  chances. 

The  wheat  was  safely  harvested  and  no  rain  fell.  Matthew, 
increasingly  anxious  about  the  corn,  searched  the  sky  for  clouds. 
He  was  irritable  even  with  the  children.  Ellen  bore  with  him  and 
pitied  him  and  obeyed  the  commands  of  Millie. 

Early  in  August  Matthew  sat  one  evening  on  the  doorstep. 
There  had  been  since  noon  a  low  bank  of  clouds  in  the  west. 


268  ELLEN  LEVIS 

but  he  had  often  been  deceived  by  banks  of  clouds.  When  they 
rose  higher,  he  was  immensely  cheered,  pointing  them  out  to 
Millie,  who  merely  looked  sullenly  in  the  opposite  direction,  and 
said  nothing.  He  turned  to  Ellen  and  asked  her  to  walk  with 
him  to  the  woodland  from  which  they  could  get  a  better  view. 
She  looked  at  Millie's  lowering  face. 

"Won't  you  go,  Millie?  I'll  stay  here." 

"I  was  n't  asked,"  said  Millie  briefly,  her  very  flesh  tingling 
with  resentment. 

For  an  instant  Ellen  hesitated;  then  she  followed  Matthew 
across  the  yard  and  the  stubble-field  to  the  woodland. 

Before  their  eyes  the  sun  sank  in  a  blaze  of  glory.  On  bright 
days  only  could  a  low  range  of  hills  be  seen  from  this  point,  but 
now  they  believed  they  could  see  beyond  to  the  gleaming  river. 
As  the  sun  disappeared  they  sat  down  on  the  old  tree-trunk.  The 
hot  wind  bred  restlessness  and  sadness. 

"I  was  wrong  about  everything,"  said  Matthew  soberly  after 
a  long  time.  "What  I  said  in  the  meeting-house  was  nonsense, 
as  my  father  said  it  was.  I  was  misled." 

Ellen  was  appalled.  Matthew  had  arranged  his  whole  life  in 
accord  with  that  confession.  But  she  could  give  him  no  comfort; 
when  Levis  died  she  had  been  a  child,  and  since  that  time, 
greatly  as  she  had  been  troubled,  she  had  felt  no  need  for  super- 
human reassurance. 

"It  must  have  been  very  hard  to  give  it  all  up  after  you  had 
believed  it." 

Matthew  snapped  his  fingers.  "It  went,  like  that!  I  simply 
did  n't  hold  to  it,  that  was  all." 

"Did  you  ever  try  to  believe  again?"  asked  Ellen. 

"No;  why  should  I?  I  don't  want  you  to  think  I  don't  believe 
anything.  When  I  come  up  here  and  the  wind  is  blowing,  it  seems 
to  me  that  I  get  an  idea  about  God,  greater  than  was  ever  thought 
of  down  in  those  little  rooms.  But  I  can't  get  hold  of  it.  Perhaps 
some  day  I  shall.  It's  only  that  He  is  and  that  He's  here.  I  can't 
describe  it." 

A  long  sigh  stirred  the  leaves  above  them.  Ellen  was  disturbed. 

"There's  surely  going  to  be  a  storm,  and  we  should  go  down." 

As  she  rose  there  was  a  bright  flash  of  lightning  and  the  oaks 
began  to  sing.  She  held  out  her  hand. 


ELLEN  LEVIS  269 

"Let's  run,  Matthew!'* 

Matthew  took  the  hand  and  hfted  it.  Thus  they  stood  for  a 
second,  their  arms  outstretched,  and  then  plunged  down  the 
smooth  field  and  into  the  yard.  In  the  doorway  Matthew  called 
Millie,  but  she  did  not  answer.  He  went  upstairs  to  find  her,  but 
she  was  not  there.  Both  the  children  were  asleep  and  pinned  to 
the  pin-cushion  on  the  bureau,  in  true  melodramatic  fashion, 
was  a  note.  Matthew  read  it  and  returned  to  the  kitchen. 

"Where  is  she.^"  asked  Ellen. 

"She  has  started  home,"  said  Matthew  slowly.  "She  says  it  is 
to  stay." 

For  a  long  moment  there  was  only  the  tick  of  the  clock  and 
the  rumble  of  distant  thunder.  Then  Ellen  lifted  her  head. 

"Would  it  help  if  I  went  away.^" 

Matthew  leaned  heavily  against  the  table.  His  face  was 
intensely  white,  his  gray  eyes  darkened.  The  hand  upon  which 
he  leaned  trembled. 

"I  have  a  friend  at  the  University  with  whom  I  can  stay  for 
any  length  of  time.  She  '11  be  glad  to  have  me  till  the  term  opens." 

Matthew  lifted  his  hand  and  examined  the  callous  spots  upon 
it.  It  had  seemed  to  him  that  peace  had  descended  upon  his 
house.  He  believed  that  Ellen  would  stay  with  him  if  he  needed 
her.  He  saw  the  peace  continued,  the  old  life  restored,  his  chil- 
dren brought  up  correctly,  himself  contented.  He  longed  in- 
tensely for  Ellen's  learning,  for  her  outlook  upon  life.  If  she 
stayed  he  might  yet  repair  the  effect  of  his  own  madness.  But  like 
Ellen,  he  had  been  trained  to  follow  a  certain  rule  of  conduct 
and  he  could  not  go  counter  to  that  which  he  had  been  taught. 

"I  guess  I  should  bring  her  back,"  he  said  at  last  thickly. 
Then  a  quiver  passed  over  his  face.  His  sense  of  honor  was  of 
the  variety  which  leads,  if  need  be,  to  the  stake.  What  he  said 
was  not  easy  to  say.  "Oh,  I  have  many,  many  times  wished  for 
my  father!" 

In  a  few  minutes  his  horse  galloped  down  the  lane.  The  light- 
ning was  now  almost  incessant  and  the  thunder  rumbled  heavily. 
Standing  at  the  door  Ellen  saw  his  white  face  against  the  side 
of  the  buggy.  Then  she  went  upstairs,  and  when  she  had  closed 
the  windows  and  looked  in  upon  the  sleeping  children  she  began 
to  pack  her  trunk. 


270  ELLEN  LEVIS 

In  the  morning  she  walked  slowly  down  the  road.  Matthew 
had  come  back,  and  Millie  would  return  later  in  the  day.  The 
storm  had  made  all  fresh;  goidenrod  was  abloom  along  the 
fences.  She  thought  with  longing  of  Miss  Grammer  and  of  the 
deep  Seminar  room  at  the  library.  Work !  —  ah,  that  remained ! 

She  wished  that  she  did  not  have  to  go  to  the  Lanfair  house, 
even  though  Stephen  was  away,  but  there  were  a  few  possessions 
in  her  room  which  she  must  secure.  Besides,  she  did  not  know 
how  to  explain  her  failure  to  go.  In  the  station  she  inquired  about 
the  night  train  to  the  north.  When  she  heard  that  it  still  left  at 
10.35,  she  smiled  with  bitter  amusement,  having  unconsciously 
expected  that  a  new  era  had  begun,  even  for  trains. 

The  open  space  before  the  station  was  almost  deserted,  only 
occasionally  a  traveler  plunged  into  the  sunshine  from  the  cool 
shadow  of  the  portico.  But  indifferent  to  the  heat,  which  was 
almost  tropical  in  spite  of  last  night's  storm,  Ellen  made  her  way 
toward  the  street  of  Mr.  Goldstein  and  thence  toward  the  river. 
She  saw  the  dome  of  the  Capitol  and  stood  still.  Why  not  spend 
her  brief  hour  with  memories  of  her  father  and  spare  herself  a 
keener  pain? 

But  she  went  on  toward  the  shining  river,  her  shoulders  lifted 
so  that  three  elderly  gentlemen  sitting  in  the  window^s  of  a  club- 
house opened  drowsy  eyes  and  craned  admiring  necks.  All  had 
comfortable  fortunes,  one  had  great  possessions  and  one  had 
memories  of  intense  happiness,  but  all  would  have  exchanged 
that  which  they  had  for  that  which  Ellen  had  and  which  they 
would  have  no  more. 

Suddenly  she  crossed  the  street  and  sat  down  on  a  bench  in 
the  park.  She  was  breathing  rapidly,  she  must  compel  herself 
to  be  composed.  She  must  forget  her  dreams,  she  must  take 
account  of  what  she  still  had  and  thus  fortify  herself  before  she 
entered  Stephen's  house. 

Work?  —  the  reminder  had  consoled  her  this  morning,  v/hy 
could  it  not  console  her  now?  Friends?  —  she  had  made  few, 
and  Miss  Grammer  was  old.  Books?  —  ah,  what  miserable  de- 
fect in  her  made  them  seem  dull?  The  beauty  of  the  world?  —  it, 
alas!  merely  quickened  one's  pain. 

How  often  she  had  stolen  away  to  the  heights  above  the  lake 
or  to  a  secluded  seat  from  which  she  could  watch  Triphammer 


ELLEN  LEVIS  271 

Fall!  She  thought  of  it  now  without  pleasure.  How  often  she 
had  marked  the  perpetually  changing  aspect  of  the  stream  before 
her!  As  if  to  recall  her  pleasure  she  looked  at  it  with  attention. 
Below  her  on  the  bank  stood  a  pair  of  young  aspen  trees  whose 
delicate  interlacing  branches  formed  a  lattice-work  through 
which  the  river  showed  here  a  pale  lavender,  here  a  delicate  gray. 
Toward  the  farther  bank  a  mile  away  a  rosy  cloud  seemed  to 
rest  upon  the  water.  The  sight  brought  not  pleasure  but  tears. 
She  was  to  see  the  river  no  more  with  the  eye  of  possession;  this 
was  not  home  to  her,  it  was  a  place  of  strangers. 

She  rose  quickly.  She  would  get  the  books  which  Lanfair  had 
given  her,  the  dress  which  hung  in  the  closet  which  had  been 
hers,  and  she  would  flee. 


CHAPTER  XXXVII 

A  BITTER  WAKENING 

Stephen  woke  from  unconsciousness  to  incredible  sensations  of 
nausea  and  weakness  and  pain.  In  his  mind  two  convictions  alter- 
nated; the  first  that  he  was  an  enormous  body  which  no  room 
could  contain;  the  second  that  he  had  no  body  whatever,  that 
all  flesh  had  been  removed  from  his  bones  by  some  terrible  proc- 
ess. Gradually  all  the  indefinable  pain  and  terror  concentrated 
in  his  left  side. 

As  consciousness  quickened  he  realized  that  he  was  not  at 
home,  but  in  a  strange  bed  in  a  strange  room,  and  that  a  strange 
woman  in  a  white  dress  sat  beside  him.  Slowly  he  accounted  for 
his  presence  in  this  place,  confusing,  however,  in  spite  of  the 
pain,  his  right  hand  with  his  left.  It  was  his  right  hand,  he  be- 
lieved, which  he  had  hurt.  He  tried  for  a  long  time  to  lift  it  and 
succeeded  at  last  in  bringing  it  with  a  feeble  jerk  within  his  area 
of  vision.  It  was  still  there  and  he  could  see  no  change  in  it.  He 
gave  a  long  sigh  and  recognized  Miss  Knowlton's  blue  eyes 
looking  at  him  from  a  white  face.  After  gazing  at  her  steadfastly 
he  brought  out  a  few  foolish  words. 

"Your  —  mouth  —  is  —  twisted." 

Miss  Knowlton's  mouth  was  twisted.  She  yearned  to  be  of 
heroic  service  and  at  the  same  time  she  desperately  hoped  for 
the  return  of  Dr.  Salter.  She  had  sat  often  by  the  bedsides  of 
reviving  women  who  had  to  be  told  that  no  living  joy  had  come 
from  hours  of  purgatory;  and  it  was  after  many  experiences  of 
this  sort  that  she  had  become  an  attendant  in  a  doctor's  office. 
She  waited  for  Stephen's  return  to  consciousness  with  even  more 
frightful  apprehensions. 

Another  hour  passed  and  she  was  still  sitting  in  the  same 
place,  when  the  first  numbing  suspicion  of  the  truth  dawned  upon 
Stephen.  If  his  hand  was  there  and  sound,  why  this  agony  in  his 
other  shoulder?  He  turned  his  unpillowed  head  slowly  and  looked 
down,  but  the  covers  hid  his  body.  He  tried  to  lift  his  left  hand 
as  he  had  lifted  his  right,  but  he  could  not  move  it.  It  was 
doubtless  tightly  bandaged;  it  was  necessary  in  such  cases  to  be 


ELLEN  LEVIS  273 

thorough  and  Salter  and  his  assistants  cut  deep.  He  closed  his 
eyes  to  shut  out  thought. 

But  thought  was  not  to  be  permanently  shut  out.  With  a  sud- 
den impulse  he  reached  across  his  body,  but  he  reached  vaguely 
and  met  only  Miss  Knowlton's  strong  grasp. 

"I'd  try  to  lie  perfectly  still,"  she  advised  earnestly. 

He  left  his  hand  in  hers.  It  was  comfortable  to  feel  a  human 
touch  and  it  suited  a  cunning  plan  to  pretend  to  yield.  Her 
mouth  twisted  again,  but  he  made  no  comment  upon  it.  He 
closed  his  eyes  and  after  a  while  withdrew  his  hand  gently  and 
slipped  it  back  under  the  covers.  Miss  Knowlton  had  an  eagle 
eye  and  he  must  move  with  caution.  He  smiled  feebly  —  she 
furthered  his  scheme  by  drawing  up  the  covers  to  his  neck.  He 
moved  his  hand  little  by  little,  and  touched  with  the  tips  of  his 
fingers  after  long  and  exhausting  effort  his  left  shoulder. 

His  first  emotion  was,  incongruously,  one  of  amusement. 

*' They've  taken  it  off,"  he  said  aloud  as  though  his  circum- 
vention of  watchfulness  was  the  only  important  fact. 

Miss  Knowlton  ignored  his  cleverness.  "I'd  try  to  get  to  sleep 
now."  In  the  effort  to  prevent  her  lips  from  twisting  she  looked 
at  him  with  a  threatening  gaze.  If  Dr.  Salter  would  only  come! 
Suddenly  he  caught  her  hand  and  held  it  in  a  weak  and  desperate 
grip.  She  closed  both  her  own  upon  it. 

"Did  they  take  it  off.?" 

Denial  was  useless. 

"Yes,  Doctor." 

"At  the  shoulder?" 

"Yes."  She  lifted  his  hand  and  held  it  against  her  breast,  then 
she  bent  over  him  and  wiped  away  his  tears.  He  turned  his  head, 
conscious  of  his  ignominy,  but  she  felt  solemnly  that  she  had 
lived  through  a  great  moment. 

He  slept  a  drugged  sleep.  In  the  morning  he  woke  to  conscious- 
ness as  one  wakes  to  bereavement;  first  a  vague  suspicion  that 
all  is  not  right,  then  full  perception  of  the  leaden  weight  from 
which  there  is  to  be  henceforth  no  escape. 

Dr.  Salter  repeated  to  him  presently  the  opinions  of  his  col- 
leagues, their  hesitation,  their  deep  concern,  their  final  agree- 
ment that  delay  would  be  fatal,  and  Stephen  managed  to  answer 
gayly.  Then  he  closed  his  eyes  and  Salter  went  away. 


274  ELLEN  LEVIS 

With  returning  strength  came  increasing  activity  of  mind. 
He  remembered  the  journey  upon  which  he  had  set  out  and  its 
interruption.  He  was  uphfted  no  longer  by  the  spirit  of  sacri- 
fice; he  felt  only  a  sort  of  shamed  humility.  Some  mighty  power 
had  mishandled  him,  and  resistance  was  absurd.  There  were 
moments  when  he  wept  feebly. 

He  believed  presently  that  he  was  going  to  die,  and  he  tried 
to  recollect  a  magic  formula  which  had  once  comforted  him,  but 
which  he  could  no  longer  remember.  Miss  Knowlton  saw  his 
knitted  brows. 

"Is  there  anything  you  want?" 

"  Do  you  know  anything  which  begins  *  I  believe  '.^  "  No  sooner 
were  the  words  uttered  than  he  realized  that  he  had  delivered 
himself  to  the  tyranny  of  a  sentirnental  piety. 

Miss  Knowlton,  being  a  church  woman,  knew  the  Creed  per- 
fectly. Having  concluded  a  glib  recitation  she  began  a  psalm. 
Her  mouth  was  once  more  awry,  she  believed  that  she  had  lived 
through  a  second  great  moment. 

It  was  not  until  the  fifth  day  that  he  thought  of  Ellen.  At  once 
a  reviving  flood  filled  his  veins;  he  became  impatient  with  his 
helplessness,  with  bandages,  with  feeding  with  a  spoon,  with  the 
tender  ministrations  of  over-solicitous  nurses.  .He  moved  rest- 
lessly in  his  narrow  bed.  Ellen  would  be  coming  home  —  if  she 
did  not  stay  for  the  Senior  festivities,  she  might  be  on  her  way 
now!  But  Fetzer  was  not  at  home  and  he  was  not  there!  He  tried 
to  reckon  the  time  which  had  passed  since  he  had  written  to  her, 
but  the  problem  was  too  difficult.  When  he  saw  her,  everything 
would  be  right,  everything;  she  would  smile  at  him,  she  — 

"Oh,"  he  cried  suddenly,  "I  am  helpless,  useless,  weak, 
crippled!" 

It  was  midnight  and  no  one  but  Stephen  himself  was  present 
at  this  first  moment  of  full  mental  and  physical  consciousness. 
The  various  shocks  through  which  Miss  Knowlton  had  sus- 
tained him  were  slight  compared  with  the  cruel  realization  that 
life  was  over  and  done  for,  that  even  Hilda's  death  could  not 
give  him  Ellen,  that  she  was  lost  to  him.  He  measured  for  the 
first  time  his  love.  Without  his  hope  of  Ellen  he  had  nothing. 
He  felt  himself  sinking  deep  into  an  abyss;  he  knew  that  body 
as  well  as  soul  was  faint,  he  believed  that  death  might  be  at  hand. 


ELLEN  LEVIS  275 

Then  suddenly  an  extraordinary  experience  was  his ;  he  seemed 
to  grasp  for  an  instant  that  solution  of  life  for  which  he  had 
struggled  a  week  ago  in  fever  and  pain.  He  lay  thinking  intently 
in  the  quiet  night.  The  door  was  closed,  traffic  on  the  street  was 
for  a  short  time  suspended,  the  nurse  did  not  return.  His  father 
had  had  all  Stephen's  youth  in  which  to  sow;  now  suddenly, 
warmed  not  by  sunshine,  but  by  the  heat  of  pain,  and  watered 
by  affliction,  the  seed  bore  fruit.  Forlorn,  maimed,  broken  in 
spirit,  he  remembered  his  father's  teaching,  he  heard  his  father's 
voice  describing  again  the  wooing  of  that  importunate  Lover  in 
whom  he  believed: 

"  Yet  let  him  keep  the  rest. 
But  keep  them  with  repining  restlessness; 
Let  him  be  rich  and  weary,  that  at  least. 
If  goodness  lead  him  not,  yet  weariness 
May  toss  him  to  My  breast." 

He  remembered  the  Chestnut  Ridge  schoolhouse,  filled  after 
a  mine  explosion  with  weeping  women  and  children;  he  recalled 
his  father's  prayers,  their  prayers.  Even  he  had  prayed  and  had 
been  comforted! 

The  memory  of  boyhood  became  detailed;  he  was  suddenly  in 
the  midst  of  an  almost  fatal  experience.  He  had  gone  to  swim  in 
a  deep  mine  hole  and  had  become  exhausted.  Hanging  over  the 
edge  of  the  bank  was  a  branch  of  an  old  tree,  and  he  had  reached 
for  it  desperately  without  any  expectation  that  it  would  sustain 
him,  but  it  had  proved  firm  and  he  had  drawn  himself  slowly 
but  safely  out  of  the  black  water.  He  remembered  the  rough  bark 
against  his  bare,  shivering  body,  the  heavenly  consciousness  of 
safety.  He  felt  now  a  similar  security,  but  it  was  of  the  soul. 

On  the  seventh  day  Mayne  came  to  visit  him.  He  did  not  know 
exactly  where  to  look,  and  with  recourse  to  a  physician's  gesture, 
he  laid  his  hand  on  Stephen's  wrist.  He  glanced  meaningly  at  the 
nurse,  and  she,  returning  his  gaze  with  an  understanding  nod, 
departed. 

"I  have  sad  news  for  you,  my  boy,"  he  said  solemnly. 

In  a  flash  Stephen  saw  himself  walking  through  carpeted  cor- 
ridors following  the  back  of  a  Prince  Albert  coat. 

"Well.?" 

*' Hilda  has  passed  on." 


£76  ELLEN  LEVIS 

"When?" 

"A  week  ago." 

Then  everything  was  over,  even  the  poor  body  was  put  away. 
He  felt  for  an  instant  more  than  an  orthodox  solemnity,  a  tender- 
ness which  bred  tears;  then  misery  sprang  upon  him  like  a  beast 
from  the  jungle.  If  he  had  not  gone  on  his  journey  northward,  if 
he  had  waited  a  few  pitiful  days,  he  would  not  be  lying  here, 
done  for !  His  slight  color  vanished,  his  hand  trembled,  the  skin 
of  his  face  quivered. 

"What  is  it?"  Mayne's  hand  went  back  to  his  wrist. 

He  began  babbling  his  formula.  He  tried  not  to  say  it,  but  his 
weak  tongue  would  not  be  controlled,  and  Mayne  looked  down 
upon  him  more  embarrassed  than  he  had  ever  been  in  his  life. 
His  philosophic  good-humor  furnished  him  with  no  panacea  to 
offer  this  smitten  creature,  returning  in  feebleness  of  mind  to 
some  forgotten  piety  of  his  youth. 

It  seemed  to  Stephen  after  a  few  days  that  he  could,  if  he  were 
clever  enough,  get  Ellen  back.  He  still  had  periods  of  pain,  but 
his  brain  now  worked  smoothly.  She  had  an  angel's  heart.  If  he 
needed  her  before,  he  needed  her  doubly  now.  Her  youth  was 
only  a  small  part  of  her;  he  needed  her  cheerfulness,  her  devo- 
tion, her  enthusiasm.  In  exchange  he  would  give  her  riches, 
travel  to  the  ends  of  the  earth,  everything  she  could  desire.  He 
would  not  be  tyrannical  over  her,  but  she  must  be  his.  When  the 
fires  of  his  soul  burned  lowest  he  promised  her  liberty  and  riches 
—  if  she  served  him  till  his  death !  The  meditations  of  his  mid- 
night hour  had  not  yet  worked  their  complete  work  upon  him. 

But  where  was  Ellen?  To-morrow  was  the  latest  day  upon 
which  she  could  be  expected.  He  was  to  have  sat  up,  but  he  would 
postpone  it  another  day  because  they  would  certainly  not  let 
him  both  sit  up  and  see  a  visitor. 

When  she  did  not  come,  he  grew  restless.  She  had  attended 
dances,  she  had  mentioned  the  names  of  young  men.  The  weak- 
ness of  body  which  had  kept  him  humble  and  quiet  had  vanished, 
physical  strength  intensified  each  emotion. 

Wlien  another  day  passed,  his  restlessness  became  apparent 
to  his  nurse.  He  would  have  inquired  of  Miss  Knowlton  but  he 
believed  that  she  enjoyed  prying  into  his  soul  and  he  feared  some 
betraying  expression.  He  asked  for  his  letters  and  was  allowed  to 


ELLEN  LEVIS  277 

look  over  them.  Miss  Mac  Vane  had  attended  to  his  business  cor- 
respondence and  now  awaited  eagerly  his  further  pleasure.  He 
cared  nothing  for  business  correspondence  —  here  was  a  letter 
from  Ellen,  written  two  weeks  ago  from  the  University  —  Miss 
Knowlton  helped  him  with  the  stiff  paper. 

*'She  ought  to  be  coming  along,"  he  said,  trying  to  keep  his 
excitement  out  of  his  weak  voice. 

"She  came  to  the  house  some  days  ago  to  inquire  and  went  on 
to  her  brother's.  She  asked  for  you  by  telephone  from  there  — 
at  least  some  one  called  from  Ephrata." 

Stephen  turned  his  head  away.  Miss  Knowlton  spoke  as 
though  Ellen's  inquiry  were  unimportant.  He  was  sharply  irri- 
tated. She  need  n't  think  that  Ellen  would  not  come ! 

But  only  Ellen's  letter  came. 

"She's  sorry  I  am  ill!"  said  Stephen  to  himself.  He  closed  his 
eyes  and  Miss  Knowlton  thought  that  he  was  drowsy.  She 
treated  him  now  like  a  loved  infant. 

"Would  you  like  to  go  sleepy  by?'' 

Under  his  breath  Stephen  said,  "Curses  on  the  tribe!" 

By  leaving  at  this  moment  Miss  Knowlton  missed  another 
great  crisis. 

"I  shall  send  for  Ellen,"  said  a  certain  Stephen. 

"You  shall  not  send  for  her,"  said  another  Stephen.  "She  is 
young,  lovely,  she  must  be  free." 

"But  I  will." 

"Oh,  no,  you  won't!  You  are  old,  maimed,  forlorn." 

"But  she'll  come!" 

"If  you  love  her,"  the  other  whispered,  "you  will  never  let 
her  come." 

Miss  Knowlton  asked,  presently,  whether  she  should  not 
answer  Ellen,  and  he  nodded,  and  turned  away  his  face.  It  was 
surely  not  required  that  he  prevent  her  from  coming!  His  heart 
warmed  to  Miss  Knowlton  and  he  knew  nothing  of  her  kindly 
postscript.  Her  eyes  were  as  sharp  as  Fetzer's,  and  she  had  once 
had  a  suspicion.  But  it  was  unfounded,  she  knew  perfectly,  and 
she  had  only  friendly  feelings  for  Ellen.  Sometimes  the  beating 
of  her  heart  almost  suffocated  her.  Stephen  was  helpless  without 
her  and  she  believed  that  his  misfortune  had  narrowed  to  noth- 
ingness the  gap  between  them.  She  interpreted  a  growing  humil- 


278  ELLEN  LEVIS 

ity  and  gentleness  as  a  growing  regard  for  herself.  A  little  color 
remained  steadily  in  her  cheeks  and  she  acquired  a  sort  of 
majesty  of  mien.  She  selected  the  friends  who  should  be  admitted 
to  his  room;  she  barred  out  those  who,  she  thought,  would  prove 
exciting;  she  did  not  inform  him,  until  he  was  almost  well,  of 
the  concern  for  his  life  which  was  almost  city -wide. 

Stephen  continued  humble  and  patient.  The  next  week  he 
went  to  the  shore  with  Miss  Knowlton  and  Fickes.  He  had  now, 
he  believed,  given  Ellen  up.  Among  his  friends  was  a  con- 
spiracy; they  all  had  confidence  in  the  healing  power  of  occu- 
pation and  they  meant  presently  to  bring  him  back  to  an  orderly 
house  and  to  an  office  set  to  run  with  its  former  machine-like 
regularity.  Devoted  assistance  should  make  his  affliction  of  no 
account,  for  his  office  practice  at  least. 

At  the  shore  he  passed  an  intolerable  month.  Miss  Knowlton 
read  to  him  in  a  voice  which  took  on  after  the  first  page  the 
mournful  tones  of  an  iEolian  harp  set  to  sing  in  a  south  wind. 
She  selected  religious  compositions  which  made  him  blush. 
Fickes  carried  him  about,  over  miles  upon  miles  of  smooth  roads, 
but  Fickes,  always  a  dull  companion,  was  now  awed  and  more 
silent  than  ever. 

He  put  the  thought  of  Ellen  away  and  sometimes  he  recited 
the  Creed  against  her.  He  meant  when  he  was  delivered  from 
Miss  Knowlton  to  look  secretly  into  this  strange  return  to  his 
believing  youth,  to  discover  whether  he  had  been  cheated  in  his 
wealmess  or  helped  in  his  need.  At  times,  looking  down  at 
his  shoulder,  he  said  bitterly,  "I  should  have  something  in 
exchange."  At  other  times  he  dwelt  upon  possibilities  which  he 
could  not  put  into  words,  but  which  answered  the  questions  of 
weariness  and  despair. 

There  was  a  cruel  bitterness  in  the  fact  that  Ellen  did  nothing 
whatever  to  make  the  putting  away  of  her  difficult.  Of  all  the 
world,  she  was  indifferent  to  his  misery.  He  evolved  presently 
an  unworthy  explanation  for  her  absence  —  she  was  repelled  by 
his  maimed  condition.  Then  he  grew  sensitive  to  the  eye  of 
mankind. 

One  day  Miss  Knowlton  approached  his  shaded  chair  on  the 
beach  with  a  letter.  Unexpectedly  another  conspirator  had 
joined  them. 


ELLEN  LEVIS  279 

"To  Dr.  S.  Lanfair,  M.D." 

Stephen  smiled.  Poor  Fetzer,  was  an  eye  easier  to  lose  than 
an  arm? 

"Read  it." 

*'*Dear  Friend/"  read  Miss  Knowlton  noting  all  Fetzer's 
peculiarities  of  style.  "*I  take  my  pen  in  hand'  —  it  is  a  pencil 
by  the  way  —  '  to  say  that  my  prayers  are  answered  and  he  is 
gone  to  where  there  is  no  more  sin  and  sorrow.  He  made  a  good 
end '  —  italics  —  '  I  heard  of  your  troubles,  but  we  all  must 
bear  troubles,  that  is  God's  law.  I  suppose  your  hohday  is  over 
—  anyhow,  I  will  be  at  my  old  stand  when  you  come  back. 
Yours  respect.'  —  period  —  'Mrs.  James  Fetzer.'" 

"My  holiday!  Does  Fetzer  think  I'm  off  on  a  holiday?" 

Miss  Knowlton  looked  at  him,  her  long,  homely  face  beaming 
with  encouragement. 

"Are  n't  you?  She  expects  you  to  go  back  and  get  to  work." 

"She  does,  does  she?" 

"There  is  n't  any  reason  why  you  should  n't." 

He  looked  at  Miss  Knowlton  and  grinned. 

"I'll  bet  you  and  Salter  and  Fetzer  and  all  the  rest  are  in 
cahoot." 

"When  shall  we  go?"  asked  Miss  Knowlton,  trembhng  and 
believing,  poor  Miss  Knowlton!  that  she  was  taking  the  first 
step  toward  her  throne. 

"At  once,  by  all  means,"  said  Stephen  grimly. 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII 

A  QUIET  HOUR 

When  the  journey  was  over  and  the  offices  inspected,  Stephen 
sat  in  his  room.  Fetzer,  controlling  her  emotions  in  his  presence, 
had  gone  to  the  third  story  both  to  rejoice  and  to  weep;  Miss 
Mac  Vane  and  Miss  Knowlton,  moving  about  the  office,  worked 
with  shining  eyes.  Stephen  had  promised  to  see  a  few  patients 
to-morrow;  life  would  be,  Miss  Mac  Vane  expected,  if  there  was 
to  be  any  change,  happier.  Miss  Knowlton  did  not  put  into 
words  what  she  expected.  Neither  thought  of  Ellen  Levis;  their 
household  was  complete. 

The  storm  in  the  night  had  given  the  park  a  springlike  green- 
ness. The  river  from  Stephen's  room  was  blue,  with  tiniest  silver 
ripples.  A  soft  breeze  stirred  the  curtains  gently  and  a  cool  green 
light  filled  the  pleasant  room.  The  familiar  walls  rested  his  eyes; 
though  he  had  known  little  but  misery  in  this  house,  he  loved 
its  stateliness  and  it  was  now  a  safe  haven.  He  had  begun  to  be 
curious  about  what  had  been  said  and  done  in  the  medical  world 
in  his  absence.  He  had  not  forgotten  the  quest  upon  which  he  in- 
tended to  go  when  he  should  be  wholly  reheved  from  espionage. 
In  the  meantime,  he  thought,  drowsily  and  childishly,  it  was 
sufficient  to  be  quiescent  and  humble.  He  beheved  that  he 
should  never  see  Ellen  nor  desire  greatly  to  see  her. 

Then  he  opened  his  eyes  at  a  slight  sound.  Ellen  was  at  hand; 
she  had  crossed  the  street  and  her  familiar  figure  which  had 
a  moment  ago  startled  the  women  in  the  office  approached  his 
door,  though  Miss  Knowlton  had  directed  her  with  lofty  kind- 
ness to  Fetzer 's  room. 

"She'll  take  you  to  see  the  doctor,"  Miss  Knowlton  promised. 

"Is  he  still  ill.?"  Ellen  asked,  astonished. 

"He's  not  entirely  well."  Miss  Knowlton  spoke  as  though  he 
were  her  child.  "But  he'll  see  you,  I'm  sure." 

If  Miss  Mac  Vane's  sight  had  been  keener,  she  would  have 
interpreted  the  long  look  which  Ellen  gave  Miss  Knowlton.  In 
it  were  astonishment,  resentment,  and  even  defiance.  She  would 
break  no  resolutions,  would  not  endanger  her  self-control,  her 


ELLEN  LEVIS  281 

ticket  for  her  journey  was  in  her  purse,  but  she  would  not  be 
escorted  to  Dr.  Lanfair's  room  by  Mrs.  Fetzer  at  Miss  Knowl- 
ton's  suggestion! 

Stephen  saw  her  at  first  dimly  across  the  wide  room  —  could 
she  be  a  deluding  vision?  He  felt  the  injured  resentment  of  a 
man  hit  when  he  is  down. 

When  he  was  convinced  of  her  reahty,  he  clutched  the  arm 
of  his  chair.  He  did  not  rise  to  meet  her,  realizing  that  he  would 
need  all  his  physical  strength  to  support  his  resolution  and  his 
pride.  When  she  came  toward  him,  and  he  saw  that  some  harsh 
trouble  had  deepened  her  eyes,  he  grew  still  more  weak.  He 
wished  for  Fetzer  or  Miss  Mac  Vane  or  Miss  Knowlton  —  he 
thought  with  confused  rage  of  Miss  Knowlton  —  if  she  was 
worth  anything  she  should  have  defended  him  from  this! 

*'I  did  n't  know  you  were  here,"  said  Ellen  in  her  low  voice. 
"Miss  Mac  Vane  and  Miss  Knowlton  just  told  me." 

"Or  I  suppose  you  would  n't  have  come!"  Had  he  said  the 
foolish  words  or  merely  thought  them.? 

"I'm  going  to  Ithaca  to-night,"  went  on  Ellen. 

She  was  halfway  across  the  room  on  her  way  to  shake  hands 
with  him  when  she  halted.  "I'm  going  to  —  "  She  stood  staring, 
incredulous,  at  his  maimed  body.  She  could  not  move  or  speak. 
It  is  hard  to  say  which  she  felt  more  deeply,  an  anguished  pity 
or  a  sharp  resentment. 

Stephen  saw  her  horror;  the  theory  which  he  had  framed  to 
account  for  her  absence  was  then  quite  proved.  He  even  be- 
lieved that  he  saw  her  hands  lifted  to  shield  her  eyes.  Her  repul- 
sion and  terror  were  unendurable,  they  constituted  the  final 
insult  of  fate. 

"Does  it  frighten  you.?"  he  asked,  wishing  to  hurt  her.  She 
had  no  business  to  come  now! 

Her  gaze  transferred  itself  to  his  eyes  and  held  them  for  a 
second.  After  a  long  moment  she  spoke  slowly,  looking  down, 
with  the  slightest  emphasis  on  her  last  word. 

"What  did  you  say  to  me?" 

Stephen  leaned  forward,  hating  himself. 

"Did  n't  you  know,  Ellen?" 

A  dumb  mouth  answered. 

"I  had  an  infected  hand.  W^on't  you  sit  down?" 


282  ELLEN  LEVIS 

Ellen  did  not  move.  Her  eyes  lifted,  regarded  him  steadily. 

"Did  you  never  wonder  why  I  did  n't  come?" 

Stephen  could  not  endure  her  gaze.  Alas,  he  was  not  cured, 
she  was  dearer,  more  desirable  than  she  had  ever  been.  Perhaps 
if  he  were  wise  and  wary,  if  he  did  not  betray  himself,  he  could 
keep  her  childish  affection  until  some  one  won  her  away!  He 
could  then  grow  gradually  accustomed  to  that  which  now  seemed 
worse  than  death. 

"You  wrote  and  I  answered,"  he  said  lightly.  "Did  you  say 
you  were  going  back  to  school.^  Why  so  early,  Ellen .^" 

"I'm  going  to  —  " 

"Do  sit  down!"  he  cried.  Did  she  mean  to  flee.?  "I  won't  hurt 
you.  I  can't  hurt  you ! "  With  an  effort  of  his  will  he  looked  at  her 
again ;  he  saw  her  waving  hair,  her  broad  forehead,  her  dark  eyes, 
her  round  figure,  all  of  sweet  Ellen.  He  looked  at  her,  steadily  and 
long,  in  the  quiet  room  as  though  he  should  never  see  her  again. 

He  saw  not  only  her  body ;  he  saw  with  a  clear  vision  her  soul, 
and  knew  that  his  journey  northward  would  have  been  in  vain, 
that  he  could  never  in  such  fashion  have  made  her  his.  In  her 
gaze  was  all  her  father's  quiet  dignity,  all  his  self-respect,  which 
could  not  be  impaired  though  all  else  were  taken.  She  had 
gained,  Stephen  saw  plainly,  the  resources  of  maturity;  though 
she  had  been  cruelly  hurt,  she  still  lifted  her  head. 

But  he  saw  more  than  the  beauty  of  Ellen's  body  and  the 
worth  of  her  soul;  he  read  her  heart  and  found  there  that  what 
he  desired  was  to  be  given  him.  He  rose  to  his  feet  without  taking 
his  eyes  from  her.  The  energy  of  life  returned;  he  felt  no  weak- 
ness; he  knew  that  that  which  he  was  to  have  was  of  inestimable 
value  and  he  determined  to  be  lacking  in  no  grateful  return. 

Ellen  moved  a  little  toward  him,  her  eyes  now  downcast. 

"I  have  come  to  say  good-bye." 

He  made  no  answer.  The  edge  of  the  awning  was  slightly 
lifted  in  the  breeze,  the  green  light  brightened,  a  shaft  of  sun- 
light struck  across  the  room,  and  he  stood  still.  He  would  not 
say,  "Ellen,  I  am  too  old,"  or,  "Ellen,  I  am  maimed."  He  would 
not  hurt  her  more  than  she  had  been  hurt.  She  had,  it  was  clear, 
no  suspicion  that  Fate  had  given  her  less  than  the  best.  He 
stood  looking  at  her  quizzically,  almost  merrily,  waiting  for  her 
to  lift  her  eyes. 


CHAPTER  XXXIX 

FETZER  CLOSES  A  DOOR 

Fetzer  presently  dried  her  tears  and,  remembering  a  message 
which  was  to  be  delivered  to  Miss  Knowlton,  smoothed  her  hair 
which  was  already  smooth  and  v/ent  down  to  the  office.  When 
she  entered  both  women  looked  up  in  surprise. 

"Where  is  Ellen?"  asked  Miss  Mac  Vane.  "Is  she  going  to 
stay?  It's  too  early  to  go  back  to  school." 

"Ellen,"  repeated  Fetzer.  "Is  she  here?  Do  you  mean  our 
Ellen?" 

Miss  Mac  Vane  grew  a  little  pale  and  Miss  Knowlton  turned 
her  head  quickly. 

"She  came  in  a  long  time  ago  and  I  sent  her  to  find  you.  I 
told  her  that  Dr.  Lanfair  was  in  his  room  and  that  you'd  take 
her  to  speak  to  him." 

"Did  she  go  upstairs  the  front  way?"  asked  Fetzer. 

"She  must  have,"  answered  Miss  Knowlton. 

"How  long  ago  was  this,  then?" 

"A  half -hour,"  said  Miss  Mac  Vane. 

"It's  much  longer  than  that,"  corrected  Miss  Knowlton.  She 
rose,  her  cheeks  scarlet.  Ellen  should  have  followed  directions. 

"Doctor  should  have  some  nourishment,"  she  said  sharply. 
"I'm  going  to  take  him  a  cup  of  iced  broth." 

Then  to  her  astonishment  Miss  Knowlton  found  her  way 
barred.  Fetzer  had  closed  the  door  and  placed  herself  in  front  of 
it.  She  stood  again  in  the  hall  on  a  hot  August  afternoon  and 
saw  Ellen's  look.  A  flame  leaped  to  life  in  her  heart,  then  died 
down,  leaving  only  glowing  embers.  She  believed  that  she  knew 
what  was  happening  in  Stephen's  quiet  room.  As  for  these  poor 
souls,  they  had  had  no  experience  of  life.  She  looked  at  them 
with  the  utmost  kindness. 

"I  wouldn't  go  now,"  she  said,  flushing.  "He'll  ring  when 
he  wants"  —  she  had  meant  to  say  "you,"  but  she  said  val- 
iantly "us."  Then  a  sound  startled  her,  almost  shocked  her.  It 
was  a  man's  laugh,  hearty,  clear,  happy,  ringing  through  the 


284  ELLEN  LEVIS 

quiet  house,  and  penetrating  the  closed  door.  She  laid  her  hand 
on  the  side  of  her  face,  the  tips  of  her  fingers  covering  the  black 
patch,  and  smiled  a  brave  smile.  All  of  them  heard  the  laugh 
again. 

"Ellen,  she  will  make  him  happy,"  said  Fetzer  in  her  pleasant 
idiom. 

"He  deserves  to  be  happy,"  said  Miss  Mac  Vane  soberly  after 
another  moment  of  silence. 

Miss  Knowlton,  who  was  younger,  said  nothing.  She  returned 
to  the  inner  room,  and  there  with  automatic  regularity  of  mo- 
tion lifted  bottles  from  a  shelf  which  had  not  been  dusted  to 
one  which  had. 


THE  END 


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